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GEO.   H.   CLARK. 


HARTFORD: 
CHARLES    G^.    G-EER. 

1860. 


Entered  according  to  Act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  1860,  by 

GEORGE   H.    CLARK, 
in  the  Clerk's  Office  of  the  District  Court  of  Connecticut. 


PRESS    OF    CASE,    I.OCKWOOD   AND    COMPANY,    HARTFORD,    CT. 


THIS    VOLUME 
CONTAINS    A    PORTION    OF    MY 

"FUGITIVES," 

NOW   RESURRECTED    FROM 

MAGAZINES  AND   NEWSPAPERS, 

AND   MARSHALLED   IN   THEIR   PRESENT  ARRAY 

TO   PLEASE   MYSELF, 

AS  WELL  AS  SOME  OTHERS 

WHOM    I    WISH    TO     PLEASE. 

A    SMALL    EDITION,    ONLY,    WILL    BE    PRINTED, 

THE   BULK   OF   WHICH   WILL   BE   DISTRIBUTED 

AS   MY   FANCY   MAY   DICTATE. 

AS   A    FEW   COPIES   WILL   PROBABLY   BE   FOR  SALE, 
THE   BOOK   TO   THAT   SMALL   PORTION   OF 

%\^t  fttblic 

WHO   MAY   READ    OR 
BUY  IT. 


M191791 


CONTENTS. 


PAGE. 

Old  Songs, 9 

Welcome  to  Winter, 12 

Autumn  Leaves, 15 

November, 17 

Life's  Meridian, 19 

Winter  Rhymes, 21 

No  More, '23 

Greenwood, .        .        .26 

The  Old  Year, 28 

Growing  Old, 31 

The  Auctioneer, 33 

The  Annoyer, 36 

Monterey, 39 

My  Boy, 43 

Welaway, 46 

My  Twilight  Hour, 49 

Far  and  Near, 51 


PAGE. 

Extract, .        .        .53 

The  Oak, 57 

The  Blacksmith, .59 

The  Parson, 62 

A  Picture, 66 

Place  by  the  Sea, 70 

Evening  by  the  Sea,         . 73 

Frost  Work, 76 

Old  Robin, 78 

Album  Verses, 82 

To  a  Caged  Lion, 84 

The  Menagerie, 87 

The  Wedding, 90 

The  Rail, 92 

Bayard  Taylor, 95 

The  Portrait, 98 

I  Remember, 100 

The  Good  Old  Times, 102 

To  a  City  Pump, 104 

Twilight, 106 

Cockney  Lyric,  .        .        . 109 

A  Charge  of  Infantry, Ill 

The  Sewing  Machine, 114 

Geologist  to  his  Love, 117 

Piscatory, 120 

Bob, 123 

Take  it  Easy,     .        .        . 127 

Holiday  Rhymes,    .        .        . 130 

Rhymes  for  the  Times, 132 


PAGE. 

Advertisement, 136 

The  Parvenu, 140 

Railroad  Bond, 145 

Berkshire  Breeze,     .         .         .         .         .         .         .         .148 

Woodbury  Centennial, 157 

Lines,  Putnam  Phalanx, 160 

The  Return  Incident, 165 

The  Voyage, 166 

The  Repulse, 171 

The  Tory, 176 

Sack  and  Sugar, 181 

Nip  and  Tuck, 186 

Ballad, 191 

The  Gardener, 193 

The  Reason  Why, 197 


OLD    SONGS. 

Who  shall  deny  the  poet's  heart 
The  memories  of  joys  and  tears, 

That  mingle  as  he  reads  apart 

The  treasures  of  his  earlier  years? 

There  is  in  lialf  forgotten  rhyme 

A  charm  that  makes  the  singer  thrill, 

And  lingers,  in  life's  twilight  time. 
Like  sunset  o'er  a  distant  hill. 

As  travelers,  when  the  day  is  spent. 
Look  back  upon  the  pleasant  scene. 

Review  each  path  by  which  they  went, 
Each  shady  nook  and  bit  of  green, 

So  does  the  musing  rhymer  love 

To  ponder  over  labors  past, 
And  on  each  recollected  verse, 

A  glance  of  fond  afifection  cast. 
2 


10 


Or  as  a  kindly  father  loves, 

Beneath  the  tender  evening  skies, 

To  fondle  all  the  little  doves 
That  make  his  home  a  Paradise, 

So  will  the  poet  cherish  lays 

That  underneath  his  hand  have  grown, 
Partly  for  that  his  neighbors  praise, 

And  partly  that  they  are  his  own. 

He  loves  them  when  he  sends  them  forth 
On  seas  of  printers'  ink  to  sail. 

And  loves  them  when  the  daily  press 
Receives  them  with  a  welcome  hail. 

And  when  some  critic's  eye  is  caught 
By  sly  or  humorous  words  of  mine. 

And  noting  the  sarcastic  thought 
That  underlies  the  quiet  line, 

All  pleasantly  reprints  the  same. 
With  pungent  paragraph  of  praise, 

I  call  him  friend — and  drink  his  health, 
And  wish  him  joy  and  length  of  days. 

And  as  the  flying  years  go  by 

And  cast  upon  my  rhymes  a  shade, 

When  friends  have  nearly  all  forgot 
The  ripple  their  appearance  made, 


11 


'Tis  very  pleasant  once  again 
To  see  the  village  papers  seize 

And  start  afresh  the  stranded  waifs, 
To  fly  before  a  favoring  breeze. 

Slight  as  they  are,  I  love  to  meet 
The  old  familiar  look  they  wear, 

And  though  eclipsed  by  brighter  stars, 
Still  love  to  see  them  glimmer  there. 

And  I  am  conscious  when  I  read 
My  words  to  metered  music  set. 

That  I  can  write  a  daintier  song 
Than  any  I  have  written  yet. 

Then  let  the  poet's  fancy  play 
In  secret  o'er  his  hoarded  rhyme. 

Nor  take  from  him  the  slender  ray 

That  gilds  the  cold  gray  wing  of  Time. 


WELCOME    TO    WINTER. 

Brimmers  to  Winter!     Winter  wild  and  weird, 

Frost-crowned  and  peerless!     To  his  jocund  laugh 
And  frolic  eye,  and  long  white  flowing  beard, 

Let  us  with  right  good  will  our  bumpers  quaff. 
For  why  should  poets  paint  the  jovial  sage 

So  fiercely  grim,  and  not  his  beauties  sing? 
Why  call  him  blear  eyed,  crabbed,  curst  with  age. 

And  slander  thus  the  good  old  roistering  king? 

Not  so  do  we  behold  him.     Glowing  hearts 

Welcome  with  joy  their  ancient  loving  friend. 
While  he  ungrudgingly  to  them  imparts 

Pleasures  that  multiply  withouten  end. 
Who  brings  delights  to  wile  the  evenings  long? 

Who  drives  off  cares  that  pained  the  summer  time? 
Who  crowns  long  months  of  toil  with  mirth  and  song, 

But  brave  old  Winter  in  his  lusty  prime? 


13 


Hark  to  the  sleigh  bells  on  the  snow-piled  plain — 

Their  witching  music  fills  the  frosty  air; 
While  riant  voices,  like  a  gay  refrain, 

Tell  that  red  lips  and  sparkling  eyes  are  there. 
And  mark  yon  skater  on  the  ice-bound  stream — 

Such  magic  circles  spring  beneath  his  heel. 
And  such  his  dexterous  feats,  we  almost  deem 

Some  tricksy  Ariel  rides  the  ringing  steel. 

I  love  hoar  Winter  for  the  boisterous  glee 

With  which  he  ministers  to  young  and  old; 
A  bounteous  gentleman  indeed  is  he, 

Who  comes  with  joys  and  blessings  manifold. 
He  lends  new  beauties  to  the  maidens  fair. 

That  they  the  more  may  captivate  our  hearts, 
And  he  it  is,  not  Cupid,  that  should  bear 

The  twanging  bow  and  the  resistless  darts. 

Where  should  Love's  home  be  but  around  the  hearth 

Where  great  fires  up  the  ample  chimney  roar? 
When  care  is  banished,  and  light-hearted  mirth 

Brings  forth  for  us  his  long-time  hoarded  store. 
Grandsire  and  sire,  all  garrulous  with  delight. 

Their  rugged  features  brightening  in  the  blaze, 
Grow  young  again,  and  fill  the  ear  of  night 

With  tales  and  legends  of  the  olden  days. 


14 


Though  winds  may  rave,  and  the  wide  drifting  snow 

Give  to  the  shrouded  world  an  aspect  drear, 
'Tis  home's  triumphal  hour;   and  the  rich  glow 

Of  rosy  love  beams  all  around  us  here. 
Hail  to  brave  Winter!     Honored  be  his  name! 

The  bard,  delighted,  lingers  on  the  theme. 
Forgetful  of  Ambition,  Fortune,  Fame, 

While  Love,  heart-throned,  sits  here  and  reigns  supreme. 


AUTUMN    LEAVES. 

In  the  broad  forest  leaves  are  falling — 

Their  gathered  dead 
The  hinder'd  brook  fantastic  walling, 
While  the  pert  squirrel,  sharply  calling, 

Rains  down  the  mast  from  overhead. 

Old  oaks,  their  lordly  branches  lifting, 

Stand  bald  and  bare; 
And  crimson  leaves,  in  shadows  shifting. 
With  slumberous  sound  go  slowly  drifting, 

Drifting  along  the  cumbered  air. 

Sunlight,  down  through  the  foliage  leaping, 

Rich  'broidery  weaves; 
In  the  wide  openings  onward  sweeping. 
It  falls  in  holiest  beauty,  sleeping 

On  greensward  slopes  and  eddying  leaves. 


16 


Then  look,  my  saddened  soul!   around  you, 

And  ponder  o'er. 
If,  when  Life's  autumn  leaves  have  found  you, 
And  the  grave-mounds  of  friends  surround  you, 

You  too  shall  droop  to  rise  no  more. 

Like  to  those  leaves  about  me  flying. 

In  mid  air  tossed. 
The  body  then,  no  more  relying 
On  its  strong  bulwarks,  will  be  dying, 

Its  fire  in  smouldering  ashes  lost.    . 

But  death  cannot  destroy  the  spirit, 

Which  is  eterne! 
Then,  trembling  soul!   no  longer  fear  it; 
You,  who  no  dying  doom  inherit. 

Should  for  a  new  existence  yearn. 

Fit  hour  for  deep  and  mournful  musing. 

Is  Autumn  time; 
With  pregnant  thoughts  my  soul  infusing. 
It  asks,  while  leaves  their  hold  are  losing, 

Were  not  those  dead  ones  in  their  prime? 


NOVEMBER. 

Again,  0  month  of  melancholy, 

Full  of  pale  thought  and  sad  presage, 
Thou  callest  up  each  youthful  folly 

To  haunt  me  in  my  pilgrimage. 
Why  urge  with  hollow  voice  and  cold. 

Disheartened  manhood  to  remember? 
I  feel  that  I  am  growing  old 

Without  thy  warning,  drear  November. 

Wild  and  remorseless  winds  are  singing. 

In  mournful  tones,  the  dirge  of  Summer, 
While  the  hoar-frost  is  broadcast  flinging 

The  bliglit  of  an  unwelcome  comer. 
I  meet  you  now,  alas!   to  sigh 

O'er  times  I  cannot  but  remember. 
When  ye,  0  cheerless  winds,  and  I 

Met  in  a  happier  past  November. 
3 


18 


Thou  dost  evoke  in  swift  transition, 

A  shadowy  and  tumultuous  throng 
Of  scenes,  that  once  were  all  Elysian, 

And  pure  as  Eden's  morning  song; 
But  only  with  malicious  smile 

To  ask  if  I  youth's  hopes  remember. 
That  have  been  tombed  this  weary  while. 

Back  in  a  long,  long  gone  November. 

Thou  bring'st  me  not  my  promised  pleasures. — 

The  dead  leaves  fall  with  plaintive  sound. 
And,  like  those  leaves,  life's  hoarded  treasures 

Fall  withering  on  the  waste  around. 
Tears,  tears  obstruct  my  sight,  and  thou 

Dost  plague  my  soul  with  thy  "Remember," 
As  all  forlorn  thou  meet'st  me  now, 

A  pilgrim  gray,  0  bleak  November! 


LIFE'S    MERIDIAN. 

As  when,  at  noon,  some  traveler  tired. 
Rests  on  the  summit  of  a  hill. 

But  with  the  glorious  prospect  fired 
Keeps  heart  and  spirit  buoyant  still, 

Till  toward  the  land  he  has  to  tread 
He  bends  his  weary  steps  once  more, 

Where  forests  dark  and  wide  o'erspread 
The  hills  and  plains  that  stretch  before; 

So,  like  that  traveler,  now  I  stand 
A  moment  at  life's  noon-day  place. 

Where  rises  Memory's  spectre  band, 
And  Hope  averts  her  pallid  face. 

Yet  do  I  take  my  pilgrim  staff. 
Resolved  youth's  promise  to  fulfill. 

Although  life's  best  and  brightest  half 
Is  past — for  I  have  climbed  the  hill! 


20 


Passion  is  dead,  and  Hope  betrayed; 

Thought  deepens  o'er  my  clouded  brow: 
I've  lost  the  substance  for  the  shade, 

And  Love  is  but  a  memory  now. 

With  higher  thought  and  purpose  yet, 
I  will  pursue  my  journey  on; 

I  cannot,  if  I  would,  forget 

The  lesson  of  my  half  life  gone. 

Up,  up  faint  heart!     Be  very  bold. 
Nor  linger  in  the  race  of  life; 

Still  on!    nor  let  your  faith  grow  cold, 
Nor  waver  in  the  coming  strife. 

Undaunted  still,  beside  the  brave 

Press  onward,  with  the  goal  in  sight. 

Nor  falter  till  ye  reach  the  grave. 
And  bow  to  its  o'ermastering  might. 


WINTER    RHYMES. 

Come,  wheel  the  arm-chair  to  the  fire 

That  blazes  bright  and  high, 
While  the  storm  raves  and  howls  without 

And  fills  the  gloomy  sky: 
Let  shrieking  winds  outside  the  door 

Play  out  their  gusty  part, 
So  long  as  comfort  reigns  within. 

No  winter  chills  the  heart. 

Then  let  the  storm,  love,  ring  alarms. 

We've  happy  hours  in  store ; 
If  God  but  lends  us  hope  and  health. 

Why  need  we  ask  for  more? 
Riches  bring  heavy  thoughts  and  cares — 

No  jot  for  gold  care  I, 
I  have  a  sunshine  of  the  heart 

That  wealth  could  never  buy. 


22 


Give  me  these  welling  founts  of  love — 

These  authors  quaint  and  old, 
And  in  such  goodly  companie 

How  valueless  is  gold ! 
How  sweet  the  dew  from  noble  thoughts, 

Poured  out  in  honied  rhyme. 
Palls  on  the  thirsty  mind,  and  wakes 

The  soul  to  themes  sublime. 

Heeds  he  the  pudder  overhead. 

Or  noise  of  driving  sleet. 
Who  calleth  up  such  pleasant  friends 

Around  his  hearth  to  meet? 
Ah  no!   with  chosen  books  like  these 

My  heart  is  full  of  glee. 
And  Night,  that  sends  such  storms  abroad, 

Brings  happiness  to  me! 


NO    MORE. 

What  time  the  woods  were  glorious  in  decay, 

And  gentle  airs  the  fallen  leaves  were  heaping, 
In  radiant  Autumn,  at  the  close  of  day, 

While  dreamy  Silence  on  the  air  sat  sleeping. 
Poor  truant  Thought  a  holiday  was  keeping; 

Hope  smiled,  and  Memory  ran  its  tablets  o'er. 
And  Love  a  harvest  of  sweet  thoughts  was  reaping. 

When  to  my  ear  there  came  the  words  "No  moee!" 

"No  more!"     Whence  comes  that  vague  mysterious  cry 

To  break  the  charm  of  my  delicious  musing? 
To  bring  dismay  with  its  unapt  reply. 

The  impatient  heart's  enthusiast  hopes  refusing? 
Some  mischief-loving  elf,  its  power  abusing. 

Has  sent  perhaps  its  gloomy  voice  before. 
And  with  strange  prescience  my  mind  perusing. 

Thus  vexes  me  with  its  forlorn  "No  more!" 


24 


Like  frost  to  flowers  it  fell  upon  my  thought, 

And  chilled  my  throbbing  life-blood  to  its  center; 
Within  my  heart  a  sudden  change  it  wrought, 

And  seemed  my  soul's  most  hidden  depths  to  enter. 
"Is  this,"  I  asked,  "some  lonely  wood  frequenter, 

Some  Dryad  who  his  fate  does  here  deplore, 
Or  is  it  some  weird  fiend  or  dark  tormentor, 

That  with  sepulchral  tone  thus  cries  'No  more?'" 

"Tell  me,"  I  said,  "thou  mocker,  will  youth's  high 

Wild  aspirations  come  no  more  to  meet  me? 
Nor  with  impulsive  flight  stoop  from  the  sky 

With  lofty  schemes  to  cheer  but  not  to  cheat  me? 
Will  not  bright  Hope  hold  out  her  hands  to  greet  me. 

And  wreath  my  brow  with  garlands,  as  of  yore?" 
The  prophet  voice,  returning  to  defeat  me. 

But  rendered  back  the  baleful  sound  "No  moreI" 

"And  what  art  thou,  that  thus  with  hollow  voice 

Obstructs  the  light  that  o'er  my  heart  was  gleaming? 
Hope  lingers  yet,  my  loved,  my  earliest  choice. 

And  sits  enthroned  in  peerless  beauty  beaming; 
Say,  is  she  not  still  full  of  youthful  seeming. 

And  will  she  not  yet  triumph  as  before — 
Her  promises  to  youth  in  age  redeeming?" 

Shuddering  I  hear  the  dread  reply  "No  more!" 


25 


But  friends  are  left  me  still — and  they  will  come, 

Boy-hearted,  while  I  am  life's  vale  descending; 
Surely,  among  them  all,  there  will  be  some — 

My  old  familiar  friends — who  will  be  bending 
Kind  eyes  on  one  who  feels  the  fate  impending. — 

Will  youth  and  love  be  ours  beyond  the  shore, 
Dark,  silent,  drear,  to  which  my  barque  is  trending?— 

The  ghost  returns  his  dolorous  "No  more!" 

Deep  in  my  heart-cells  sinks  the  awful  word'— 

A  shadow  falls  upon  my  spirit's  yearning; 
Thoughts,  dread  and  solemn,  in  my  breast  are  stirred 

Of  perished  joys  that  know  of  no  returning. 
The  fearful  warning  in  my  brain  is  burning. 

And  all  seems  stranded  on  a  barren  shore. 
While  the  blind  Future,  all  the  Present  spurning. 

Rings  a  remorseless  knell  in  its  "No  more!" 


GREENWOOD. 

And  this  is  Greenwood!     These 
Its  woods,  and  hills,  and  vine-embowered  dells, 

Where  venerable  trees 
Lift  their  swart  limbs  above  Death's  sculptured  cells. 

Green  is  the  turf  below. 
And  green  the  coronal  of  boughs  o'erhead. 

Where  shimmering  sunbeams  glow 
And  gild  the  silent  city  of  the  dead. 

Flecked  with  the  sunset's  rays, 
Yon  stately  pillar  tells  its  solemn  tale; 

And  through  the  distant  haze 
Memorial  shafts  rise  dimly  from  the  vale. 

Though  sweet  buds  blossom  here. 
And  birds  in  ecstacy  of  music  soar, 

Yet  it  is  ever  drear 
To  muse  where  Death  has  garnered  up  his  store. 


27 


Here  crush  beneath  the  tread 
Flowers  that  derive  their  fragrance  from  the  mould 

Where  rest  the  crumbling  dead, 
And  where  corruption's  worms  their  banquet  hold. 

On  every  side  one  sees 
Great  marble  jaws,  all  yearning  for  their  prey. 

And  marks  the  festering  lees 
Of  mouldering  corses  oozing  from  the  clay. 

Pale,  ghastly  forms  arise, 
All  featureless  and  grim,  in  sickening  crowds, 

Whose  fixed  and  hollow  eyes 
Glare  from  dark  skulls  in  mockery  of  their  shrouds. 

Methinks  the  air,  as  well. 
That  drifts  among  these  monumental  stones, 

Comes  tainted  with  the  smell 
Of  charnel-houses  and  of  dead  men's  bones. 

Let  me  not  linger  here — 
For  thoughts  too  gloomy  round  my  fancy  play. 

And  cast  a  shadowy  fear 
Upon  the  soul,  that  should  be  bright  alway. 


% 


THE    OLD    YEAR. 

Onward,  still  onward  blindly  urging, 

With  booming  voice  sublime, 
One  fragment  more  falls,  downward  surging 

Into  the  Gulf  of  Time; 
Falls,  with  a  sound  of  woe  and  groaning. 

From  its  returnless  host, 
As  with  a  sad  and  grievous  moaning 

The  year  gives  up  the  ghost. 

All  frosted  o'er  with  rime,  and  hoary. 

Time  droops  his  palsied  head; 
From  his  thronged  realms  is  heard  the  story. 

The  story  of  the  dead. 
See  how  his  path  is  tracked  with  sadness. 

With  scenes  of  poignant  grief — 
Some  fainting  in  their  hour  of  gladness. 

Some  in  the  ripened  sheaf. 


29 


Over  her  first-born  yearned  a  mother — 

How  boundless  was  her  joy! 
Swift  fell  the  gloom  her  joys  to  smotlier, 

Death  came  and  claimed  the  boy. 
One  hour  her  breast  was  as  a  fountain 

That  bore  Love's  rosy  glow, 
The  next,  it  heaved  beneath  a  mountain 

Of  overwhelming  woe. 

A  dreamer,  almost  faint  with  blisses, 

Gazed  on  his  plighted  love; 
.Such  raptures  blended  in  their  kisses 

As  have  their  source  above: 
A  night  of  darkness  and  of  sorrow 

Rolled  on  its  sombre  tide. 
And  when  he  woke  to  hail  the  morrow, 

The  angels  had  his  bride. 

I  saw  an  ancient  man  and  holy, 

A  Soldier  of  the  Cross,* 
Who  at  his  Saviour's  feet  knelt  lowly. 

And  deemed  earth's  honors  dross; 
Whose  cheek,  although  his  head  was  hoary, 

Still  wore  its  youthful  bloom, 
Go,  full  of  years  and  christian  glory, 

Down  to  the  waiting  tomb. 

*Dr.  Milnor. 


30 


We  cannot  but  lament  with  weeping 

Mortality's  last  claim, 
While  memory  has  the  deeds  in  keeping 

That  sanctify  his  name. 
0  such  as  he  make  up  the  leaven 

That  gives  the  world  its  worth, 
And  great  the  gain  to  him  and  Heaven 

That  is  such  loss  to  earth! 

Brim  full  of  gloomy  thoughts  and  saddening, 

The  old  year  breathes  its  last ; 
The  only  feeling  left  that's  gladdening 

Is,  that  its  cares  are  past. 
High  hopes,  wild  thoughts,  and  earnest  dreaming 

Along  its  track  are  spread. 
And  even  Fancy's  fondest  scheming 

Lies  mingled  with  the  dead. 

And  I,  whose  heart  with  hopes  was  throbbing 

One  little  year  ago. 
Now  in  lone  desolation  sobbing, 

Mourn  for  their  overthrow. 
The  burning  thought,  whose  vivid  flashes 

Were  kindled  in  my  breast. 
Expiring  now  sinks  into  ashes 

And  leaves  me  all  unblest. 


GROWING    OLD. 

In  the  lapse  of  years  our  hopes  grow  dim, 

Our  warm  affections  cold — 
Yet  how  unwilling  to  confess 

That  we  are  growing  old. 
Life's  morning  sun  in  beauty  burst 

Upon  our  opening  view, 
And  thought  was  pure  and  holy  then, 

Bright-winged  and  ardent  too. 

The  buoyant  pulse  beat  strong  and  free 

In  that  dream-woven  day; 
Brave  were  the  hearts,  and  bold  the  deeds 

That  pressed  their  eager  way; 
And  though  we  saw  that  others  failed. 

Our  faith  grew  not  the  less — 
What  man  had  done  we  dared  to  do, 

Nor  dreamed  but  of  success. 


32 


Where  are  those  aspirations  now? 

Our  visions,  where  are  they? 
They  people  Memory's  wilderness, 

Lorn  victims  of  decay! 
The  electric  thrill  we  rendered  back 

To  beauty  in  our  youth. 
Is  ours  no  more.     Love  folds  his  wings 

And  saddens  into  truth. 

And  now,  indeed,  how  bitter  'tis 

To  look  into  the  past, 
And  see  the  shipwrecks  of  our  joys 

Bound  in  its  barriers  fast: 
And  0  how  drear  to  feel  that  Time 

His  iron  heel  has  pressed 
On  our  enthusiast  hopes,  and  crushed 

The  strongest  and  the  best. 

This  is  the  tliought  that  fires  the  brain 

With  keen  and  poisonous  art — 
That  wrings  the  life,  with  tightening  grasp, 

From  out  the  weary  heart: 
Yet  here  we  cling  with  desperate  force. 

Amid  the  sickening  strife. 
For  time,  who  steals  our  years  away, 

Takes  not  the  love  of  life. 


THE    AUCTIONEER. 

'Tis  even  so.     Experience  proves  the  truth  of  the  idea, 
Tiiat  Life  is  but  a  great  vendue,  and  Time  an  auctioneer; 
Where  man  is  tempted  by  his  hopes  some  rueful  lots  to  buy, 
As  all  who've  reached  their  spectacles  can  safely  testify. 

He's  fond — this  ancient  auctioneer — of  mystifying  folks. 

And  fobs  them  off  with  bitter  fruits,  wrapped  up  in  funny  jokes: 

For  sometimes  when  you  think  you've  bought  a  pleasure  mighty  cheap. 

The  very  memory  of  the  trade's  enough  to  make  you  weep. 

I  have  been  favored  in  my  time,  like  many  witless  wights. 
With  glimpses  at  the  Elephant,  and  other  wondrous  sights: 
But  never  dreamed  the  cost  would  be  so  fearful  in  amount. 
Until  this  wheedling  auctioneer  brought  in  his  long  account. 

For  instance; — for  some  youthful  pranks  I'm  charged  a  shining  crown; 
(But  not  the  golden  kind  that  weighs  the  wigs  of  monarchs  down — ) 
A  crow's-foot  under  either  eye,  and  furrows  on  my  brow. 
And  corns  upon  my  pedal  farm  that  grow  without  the  plough. 
5 


34 

And  manhood  made  some  purchases  that  did'nt  turn  out  well — 
The  memory  comes  to  plague  me  now  with  its  lugubrious  bell; 
For  human  passions  had  their  play,  and  poached  in  strange  preserves, 
And  left  me  with  a  visual  haze  and  vibratory  nerves. 

It's  always  so — the  goods  are  bought,  no  matter  what  the  price. 
The  buyer  all  the  blessed  while  being  sure  they're  cheap  and  nice; 
But  when  the  bill  is  handed  in — the  "little  bill"  it's  called — 
The  stoutest  heart  that  ever  beat  might  well  shrink  back  appalled. 

Yet  still  the  ambidextrous  rogue  keeps  hammering  at  his  trade; 
He  has  so  many  customers  he's  never  long  delayed: 
He  scores  a  great  lumbago,  now,  against  a  pleasant  sin. 
And  leaves  his  victim  with  a  smile  that  curdles  to  a  grin. 

A  postliminiar  draft  he  holds,  this  meddling  diplomat. 
Which  must  be  met  when  it  matures — there's  no  evading  that. 
As  well  might  you  the  ancient  dame's  aerial  project  try. 
And  sweep  with  a  terrestrial  broom  the  cobwebs  of  the  sky. 

Yon  fool  with  such  a  sallow  phiz  secured  a  lot  abroad — 
Went  to  enjoy  it,  and  came  back  bejeweled  like  a  lord; 
But  now,  poor  man,  he's  looking  round  to  buy  another  lot; 
A  smaller  one  will  serve  his  turn — it's  easy  to  be  got! 

And  he  who  has  the  shaky  limbs,  and  totters  in  his  gait, 
He  says  he  is'nt  ready  yet — the  auctioneer  must  wait. 
He  thinks  it  very  hard  to  be  so  badgered  with  a  bill, 
And  swears  he  does'nt  owe  the  scamp  a  solitary  mill. 


35 


At  all  such  warning  finger-posts  we  look  with  heedless  eyes, 
And  sugared  pleasures  tempt  us  yet,  as  sweets  inveigle  flies: 
For  Time's  a  cunning  auctioneer  who  knows  his  business  well, 
And  always  has  the  thing  we  want,  and  always  wants  to  sell. 

And  so  for  some  poor  foolish  toy  we  barter  all  our  powers, 
And  for  a  minute's  worth  of  fun  lose  many  precious  hours: 
Yet  if  we  bid  the  fearful  price  that  gains  us  wealth  or  fame. 
We  only  leave  the  bankrupt's  pawn — a  protest  and  a  name! 


THE    ANNOYER. 

Again  that  iinmelodious  drum 

Disturbs  the  quiet  street, 
Tag,  rag  and  bobtail  following  on 

With  shouts  and  clattering  feet. 
For  why?     The  little  man  behind, 

In  military  boots. 
Appareled  like  a  warrior  bold. 

Is  beating  up  recruits! 

Red  havoc's  voice  is  in  my  ear. 

Its  trappings  meet  my  eye, 
And  th'  flesh  is  creeping  on  my  bones 

To  hear  the  summons  nigh. 
0  would  yon  gleaming  sword  were  hung 

Where  it  might  gently  rust. 
And  that  poor  flag  be  laid  away 

To  gather  mould  and  dust. 


37 


Oh  why  entrap  the  harmless  man 

Who  owns  those  precious  pegs? 
A  soldier's  march  would  surely  cramp 

His  parenthetic  legs. 
Can  tliere  be  valor  in  the  soul 

That  lights  such  eyes  as  those? 
No,  no — but  like  a  silly  sheep 

He  to  the  shambles  goes. 

Pray  tell  the  dear  deluded  man 

Whom  music  has  beguiled, 
What  sacrificial  human  bones 

On  battle  fields  are  piled: 
Or  hint  that  desperate  feats  of  arms 

On  Montezumaen  farms. 
May  prove  a  total  loss  to  him 

Of  both  his  feet  and  arms. 

That  weary  drum!     0  wrap  it  up 

In  its  protecting  flag; 
And  in  tlie  fifer's  squeaking  tool 

Be  pleased  to  stuff  a  rag: 
Or  if  you  must  keep  up  your  din, 

Pray  choose  another  beat. 
And  give  your  patriot  feelings  vent 

In  some  remoter  street. 


38 


If  you'll  be  kind  enough,  my  lad, 

To  do  that  friendly  thing, 
I'll  write  a  rousing  song  for  you 

In  furlough  times  to  sing; 
I'll  even  do  a  better  deed. 

My  noisy  friend,  than  that. 
And  for  your  special  benefit 

Will  pass  around  the  hat! 


MONTEREY. 

"And  every  body  praised  the  chief 

Who  such  a  fight  did  win." 
"But  what  good  came  of  it  at  last?" 

Quoth  little  Peterkin. 
"Why  that  I  cannot  tell,"  said  he, 
"  But  t'was  a  famous  victory !  " 

News  of  a  battle  fought  and  won — 

Victorious,  we  have  swept  the  field! 
Our  camp-fires  light  the  flying  foe, 

And  we  his  captured  weapons  wield; 
While  swooping  through  the  sulphury  air 

The  vultures  come  to  claim  their  prey, 
And  banquet  on  the  dead  who  fought 

The  murderous  fight  of  Monterey. 


40 


Unfurl  the  banners,  torn  and  wet, 

That  led  the  serried  columns  on; 
The  sight  perhaps  will  lend  a  glow 

To  pallid  cheeks  and  features  wan. 
Wave  them  as  tokens  that  the  slain 

In  one  wide  grave  are  laid  away, 
Safe  from  the  prowling  wolves  that  snufF 

The  tainted  air  of  Monterey. 

Heed  not  the  widow's  blistering  tears, 

Nor  heed  the  orphan's  sorrowing  cries, 
But  let  your  clamorous  voices  drown 

The  mournful  undertone  of  sighs. 
Why  should  pale  weepers  stand  apart 

And  shed  such  earnest  tears  to-day? 
Do  they  not  hear  the  gladdening  shout 

Tliat  hails  the  news  from  Monterey? 

It  makes  our  languid  pulses  leap. 

It  stirs  and  thrills  our  kindling  hearts, 
'Till  we,  responsive,  join  the  cry 

That  such  unwonted  joy  imparts. 
Then  let  the  bells  loud  'larums  ring. 

And  lavish  flags  their  folds  display. 
For  a  glorious  victory  is  achieved 

Under  the  walls  of  Monterey. 


41 


The  bugle's  peal,  the  rolling  drum, 

The  scattering  shots,  the  wild  hurrah, 
The  trampling  hoofs,  the  frenzied  rush, 

The  noise  of  conflict  heard  afar; 
The  tattered  banners,  scorched  but  up! 

The  shouts,  the  shrieks  of  wild  dismay. 
The  thundering  cannon's  distant  roar 

Proclaim  the  fall  of  Monterey! 

Through  streams  that  pour  a  crimson  flood, 

'Mid  sabre-strokes  and  volleying  flame. 
Wading  in  life-warm  pools  of  blood. 

The  victor  tracks  liis  way  to  fame! 
The  hour  of  triumph  comes  at  last — 

The  smoke  of  battle  rolls  away. 
And  he,  all  gore  incarnadined, 

Looks  grimly  down  on  Monterey! 

Come,  ye  forlorn  and  smitten  ones, 

Whose  hopes  of  yesterday  are  cold. 
Come  join  the  cheerful  groups  who  weave 

Bright  garlands  for  the  heroes  bold; 
For  breaking  hearts  and  human  love 

And  tears  must  be  subdued  to-day. 
And  hushed  the  sigh  that  heaves  the  breast 

For  kindred  slain  at  Monterey. 


42 


111  vain  perhaps  such  deeds  may  fill 

Th'  alembic  of  the  poet's  rhyme, 
Yet  some  memorial  will  they  claim 

To  shield  them  from  sarcastic  Time. 
Then  rear — 'twill  be  a  proper  pile 

To  chronicle  the  glorious  day — 
A  cenotaph  of  human  skulls 

And  bleaching  bones  from  Monterey. 

And  leave  the  tower  pyramidal 

In  naked  truthfulness  to  stand, 
An  emblem  and  a  record  too — 

Fit  archive  for  a  Christian  land. 
It  will  a  stern  memento  prove, 

Without  the  scholar's  quaint  display, 
Nor  needs  a  blazoned  tablature 

To  tell  the  tale  of  Monterey! 


MY    BOY. 

"  There  is  even  a  happiness 
That  makes  the  heart  afraid." 

One  more  new  claimant  for 

Human  fraternity, 
Swelling  the  flood  that  sweeps 

On  to  eternity. 
I,  who  have  filled  the  cup, 

Tremble  to  think  of  it. 
For  be  it  what  it  may 

I  must  yet  drink  of  it. 

Room  for  him  into  the 

Ranks  of  humanity; 
Give  him  a  place  in  your 

Kingdom  of  vanity. 
Welcome  the  stranger  with 

Kindly  afiection. 
Hopefully,  trustfully, 

Not  with  dejection. 


44 

See,  in  his  waywardness, 

How  his  fist  doubles. 
Thus  pugilistical 

Daring  life's  troubles; 
Strange  that  the  Neophyte 

Enters  existence 
In  such  an  attitude. 

Feigning  resistance. 

Could  he  but  have  a  glimpse 

Into  futurity, 
Well' might  he  fight  against 

Farther  maturity; 
Yet  does  it  seem  to  me 

As  if  his  purity 
Were  against  sinfulness 

Ample  security. 

Incomprehensible, 

Budding  immortal, 
Thrust  all  amazedly 

Under  life's  portal; 
Born  to  a  destiny 

Clouded  in  mystery, 
Wisdom  itself  cannot 

Guess  at  his  history. 


45 

Something  too  much  of  this 

Timon-hke  croaking ; — 
See  his  face  wrinkle  now, 

Laughter  provoking: 
Now  he  cries  lustily — 

Bravo!   my  hearty  one! 
Lungs  like  an  orator 

Cheering  his  party  on. 

Look  how  his  merry  eyes 

Turn  to  me  pleadingly; 
Can  we  help  loving  him,  . 

Loving  exceedingly! 
Partly  with  hopefulness, 

Partly  with  fears. 
Mine,  as  I  look  at  him, 

Moisten  with  tears. 


WELAWAY. 

0  SOFTLY  blows  the  southern  breeze 

Beneath  the  window-blind, 
And  plumes  its  winnowing  wings  for  one 

It  never  more  may  find. 
The  birdling  that  you  seek,  0  wind. 

In  your  ^olian  play, 
Some  wandering  seraph,  stooping,  saw. 

And  bore  to  Heaven  away. 

You  took  your  flight,  0  southern  breeze. 

When  Summer's  sheaves  were  bent. 
And  there  was  sorrowing  round  my  hearth 

When  your  sweet  joyance  .went; 
Ah!   little  did  I  know  how  much 

Of  happiness  was  left. 
Until  of  that  new  love  of  ours 

My  sad  home  was  bereft. 


47 


He  went  when  Autumn's  golden  light 

The  glowing  world  o'erspread, 
And  left  behind  a  night  of  gloom 

And  ray  less  dark  instead. 
Life  was  not  life  to  me,  unless 

His  presence  formed  a  part, 
For  he  was  the  irradiate  light 

And  day-spring  of  my  heart. 

At  sound  of  my  familiar  step 

How  brightened  all  his  looks; 
Down  went  the  playthings,  and  away 

Went  all  his  pictured  books; 
His  little  hands  like  fluttering  wings 

Were  tremulous  with  joy, 
And,  happy  in  each  other's  arms, 

The  father  clasped  his  boy. 

We  lived  and  loved — a  blessed  life! 

As  we  shall  live  no  more, 
For  angel  pinions  bore  him  off 

From  this  despairing  shore: 
The  cloud  that  shut  him  from  my  sight 

Cast  back  a  fearful  spell, 
And  made  my  quailing  spirit  shrink 

Where  its  dark  shadow  fell. 


48 


Blow  softly,  gently,  southern  breeze. 

Amid  the  buds  and  bloom. 
And  let  your  odor-laden  airs 

Search  all  the  quiet  room; 
You  cannot  find  his  sweeter  breath, 

Nor  his  red  lips  restore. 
And  though  you  gladden  other  hearts 

You  wring  my  own  the  more. 

I  read  aright  the  moaning  sigh 

Beneath  my  window-blind — 
It  is  the  loving  sprite  who  seeks 

For  one  it  cannot  find; 
For  one  whose  bright  and  starry  eyes 

Are  distant  now  and  dim. 
While  Memory  fills  its  vacant  halls 

And  corridors  with  him. 

0  God!   that  such  a  world  as  this, 

So  beautiful  and  brave. 
Should  be  of  all  our  fondest  loves 

And  dearest  hopes  the  grave: 
That  in  one  bitter  hour,  a  blight 

Should  change  its  glorious  hue. 
And  wither  beauties,  which  no  showers 

Nor  spring-time  can  renew! 


MY    TWILIGHT    HOUR. 

I  WAS  quietly  sitting  last  night  by  myself, 
Musing  partly  of  poetry,  partly  of  pelf; 
Of  what  would  be  said  of  my  yesterday's  rhymes. 
And  how  I  should  weather  these  very  hard  times; 

When  by  easy  transition  Thought  wandered  iip  stream, 
To  the  time  when  young  Life  was  a  beautiful  dream. 
And  amid  the  remembrances,  some  how  or  other. 
Came  the  spectacled  eyes  of  my  stately  Grandmother. 

Ah,  well  I  remember  those  silver-rimmed  specs, 
And  the  sharp  eyes  behind  them,  my  plans  to  perplex; 
And  the  quaintly  crimped  cap,  bordered  neatly  with  lace, 
That  so  daintily  edged  her  benevolent  face. 

Fine  gold  were  the  beads  that  her  neck  gaily  bore — 
Though  long  out  of  fashion  yet  treasured  the  more; 
For  they  were  dumb  speakers,  and  whispered  of  him 
Whose  fond  recollections  her  eye  could  bedim. 

7 


50 


Her  hair  had  been  black,  but  Time  has  a  way 
Of  touching  such  locks  with  his  pencilings  gray; 
Although  neither  he,  nor  his  yoke-fellow.  Care, 
Could  conquer  her  will,  nor  its  action  impair. 

Well  skilled  in  the  art  our  wild  natures  to  school, 
Now  mild  in.  her  sway  and  now  stern  in  her  rule; 
0  well  did  we  boys  in  those  juvenile  days 
Know  her  promptness  to  punish,  her  proneness  to  praise. 

But  the  Spoiler  o'ertook  her  at  length  in  the  race, 
And  the  power  of  his  grasp  left  a  visible  trace; 
Her  strength,  from  long  buffeting,  finally  failed. 
And  her  spirit  before  the  new  enemy  quailed. 

Ah!   well — she  has  gone  where  her  troubles  are  o'er. 
Where  sorrow's  dark  wing  casts  a  shadow  no  more; 
And  there  she  has  met  with  my  fountain  of  joy, 
My  own  lovely  angel,  my  darling,  my  boy! 

And  are  they  together— my  young  love  and  old? 
Do  her  arms  my  lost  treasure  in  rapture  enfold? 
0,  eyes  of  my  dear  one!   look  down  from  the  sky. 
And  tell  me  those  arms  are  around  you  on  high. 

Ye  stars — homes  of  all  that  we  mourn  here  as  lost — 
Send  a  ray  to  my  heart  that  with  anguish  is  tossed; 
And  tell  me  that  I  sliall  yet  meet,  where  you  roll. 
The  dove-eyed  young  cherub  now  torn  from  my  soul! 


FAR    AND    NEAR. 

Sitting  by  my  open  window, 

Looking  out  where  day  is  waking, 

I  remember  him  who  left  me. 

As  a  gloomier  dawn  was  breaking. 

Here  before  me,  green  and  fragrant. 
New-mown  lawns  stretch  into  distance. 

While  the  elm  trees,  wooed  by  breezes, 
Palpitate  with  love's  resistance. 

Trembling  to  the  zephyr  kisses, 

All  the  dewy  foliage  glistens. 
And  the  oriole  sings  his  matin, 

Where  the  charmed  thrush  sits  and  listens. 

Birds  of  gay  and  glittering  plumage 
On  triumphant  wings  are  soaring, 

Songs  of  joy  and  exultation 

Over  all  the  young  dawn  pouring. 


62 


Soft,  transparent  clouds  are  floating, 
White  as  wool,  or  amber  tinted, 

Where  celestial  robes  of  wonder 
By  their  lustering  folds  are  hinted. 

Far  beyond  the  skyward  warblers 

I  can  hear  angelic  voices; 
Through  the  blue  my  vision  reaches, 

And  my  lifted  soul  rejoices. 

All  sublimed,  up  springs  my  spirit, 
Mounting  on  seraphic  pinions. 

Gazes  on  the  loved  and  lost  one. 
Meets  him  in  supreme  dominions. 

There,  in  Love's  eternal  mansion — 
There,  where  Death  is  lost  in  distance, 

I  can  see  my  own  sweet  darling, 
I  can  join  his  new  existence. 

Thus  my  strayed  but  cherished  first-born. 
Gone,  I  could  but  wonder  whither, 

Draws  me  with  electric  forces. 

From  earth's  grossness  upward  thither. 

His  the  hands  that  mine  are  clasping — 
His  the  voice  that  hails  my  greeting; 

His  and  mine  the  olden  rapture, 
The  remembered  joy  of  meeting. 


EXTRACT. 

Sweet  Fancy  loves  to  play  with  trifling  themes, 

And  loves  to  revel  in  the  land  of  dreams, 

On  every  zephyr's  breath  her  pinion  stirs, 

And  earth,  and  air,  and  all  the  clouds  are  hers. 

Her  pictures  rival,  in  their  mystic  wreaths. 

Those  which  the  sprite  on  winter  windows  breathes; 

She  floats  with  moonbeams  over  fields  of  snow. 

Which  starbeams  interlace  with  diamond  glow: 

When  spangles  glisten  in  the  frosty  air. 

She's  up  and  off"  to  frolic  with  them  there; 

She  loves  the  dreamy  haze  of  autumn  hills, 

And  loves  the  music  of  the  singing  rills. 

She  floats  with  sunbeams  through  the  shimmering  trees. 

And  bends  to  hear  the  murmuring  hum  of  bees: 

She  loves  all  quiet  beauties  and  sweet  sounds, 

As  on  light  wing  she  goes  her  airy  rounds. 


54 


The  phosphorescent  glow,  like  flashing  steel, 

That  following  foams  around  the  parting  keel ; 

Celestial  rainbows,  circling  after  storms. 

The  crimson  flush  their  wrestling  clouds  that  warms; 

The  songs  of  birds  that  hail  the  blushing  morn. 

The  plashing  rain  of  summer  evening  born, 

The  booming  melody  of  far  off  bells, 

Whose  undulations  throb  along  the  dells; 

The  insect  hum  that  stirs  the  drowsy  noon. 

The  new-mown  hay  of  aromatic  June; 

The  apple  blossoms,  and  the  bursting  rose. 

The  odor-laden  breeze  that  comes  and  goes — 

O'er  these  her  influence  frail  Fancy  flings, 

And  waves  in  dallying  wantonness  her  wings. 

Hers  is  a  realm  of  unalloyed  delight. 

Radiant  with  beauty,  and  with  star-gems  bright; 

The  sparkling  dome  enroofs  her  ample  hall. 

And  where  Thought  radiates,  there  she  halos  all. 

Imagination  takes  a  broader  sweep — 
A  wider  circle  and  a  bolder  leap; 
She  loves  the  seething  ocean's  crag-piled  shore. 
With  its  wild  grandeur  and  perpetual  roar; 
She  loves  its  breakers,  and  delights  to  ride 
Its  crested  surges  and  its  rampant  tide. 
While  its  great  tones,  upheaving  and  elate, 
Seem  kindred  voices  calling  to  its  mate. 


65 


The  hollow  moan  of  hidden  mountain  floods, 
The  fierce  winds  battling  with  the  crashing  woods; 
The  storm-king  bursting  from  his  awful  throne, 
With  eyes  of  lightning,  and  with  thunder  tone; — 
Where'er  roused  Nature  shows  her  mighty  power, 
There  will  Imagination  proudly  tower. 
She  springs  exultant  in  her  upward  flight. 
And  plumes  her  way  o'er  many  a  giddy  height; 
When  her  imperial  pinions  mount  the  gale. 
Thought,  quivering,  leaps,  to  follow  on  the  trail. 
Through  fields  of  light,  beyond  the  arching  blue. 
Her  winnowing  wings  allure  the  heavenly  dew. 
When  startled  Reason  flings  to  her  the  helm, 
Worlds  are  her  kingdom,  space  her  subject  realm; 
Down  the  long  vista  of  the  coming  years. 
On  victor  wing  her  steady  way  she  steers. 
Reads  there  events  as  prophets  read  of  yore. 
And  rides  triumphant  through  the  misty  frore. 
No  hurtling  clouds  nor  blinding  storms  of  hail 
Can  make  her  strained  and  flashing  eyeballs  quail — 
Above,  beyond  the  lazy  course  of  time. 
She  holds  her  way,  majestic  and  sublime! 

And  Memoky  has  her  triumphs,  and  her  trials. 
As  she  turns  back  the  hands  upon  the  dials; 
Strikes  chords  that  give  a  long  forgotten  tone. 
And  claims  the  past,  dominion  of  her  own. 


66 


All  there  is  hers — the  over-peopled  past, 

Where  sleep  dead  hopes,  our  earliest  and  our  last; 

She  calls  at  will  our  youthful  longings  up. 

Fills  to  the  brim  Remorse's  wormwood  cup, 

Strikes  the  wild  string  that  Passion  could  not  break, 

'Till  its  remembered  tones  once  more  awake; 

Touches  the  spring  that  opens  young  desires, 

And  once  again  they  thrill  along  the  wires; 

Lifts  the  dark  curtain  that  enfolds  young  Love, 

And  purpling  sunbeams  gild  it  from  above. 

Full  to  o'erfldwing  is  her  dark  domain. 
Where  awful  Silence  and  pale  Sorrow  reign. 
Tomb  of  lost  joys  and  sepulchre  of  hopes. 
Wherein  the  aching  soul  bewildered  gropes; 
Faith,  Hope,  and  Love  against  the  portal  lean, 
While  one  lone  Phantom  stalks  across  the  scene. 
Down  the  dim  aisles,  and  o'er  the  crumbling  walls. 
No  starry  beam,  nor  ray  of  sunlight  falls; 
Impending  clouds  shut  down  from  overhead. 
And  wrap  in  gloom  that  region  of  the  dead! 


THE    OAK. 

Yes,  blot  the  last  sad  vestige  out — 

Burn  all  the  useless  wood; 
Root  up  the  stump,  that  none  may  know 

Where  the  dead  monarch  stood. 
Let  traffic's  inauspicious  din 

There  run  its  daily  round, 
And  break  the  solemn  memories 

Of  that  once  holy  ground. 

The  hallowed  spot  your  fathers  long 

Have  kept  with  jealous  care, 
That  worshippers  from  many  lands 

Might  pay  their  homage  there: 
You  spurn  the  loved  memento  now, 

Forget  the  tyrant's  yoke, 
And  lend  oblivion  aid  to  gorge 

Our  cherished  Charter  Oak. 


58 


'Tis  well,  wlien  all  our  household  gods 

For  paltry  gain  are  sold, 
That  ev'n  their  altars  should  be  razed 

And  sacrificed  to  gold. 
Then  tear  the  strong  tenacious  roots 

With  vandal  hands  away. 
And  pour  within  that  ancient  crypt 

The  garish  light  of  day. 

Let  crowds  unconscious  tread  the  soil 

By  Wadsworth  sanctified; 
Let  Mammon  bring,  to  crown  the  hill. 

His  retinue  of  pride; 
Destroy  the  patriot  pilgrim's  shrine — 

His  idols  overthrow. 
Till  o'er  the  ruin  grimly  stalks 

The  ghost  of  long  ago. 

So  may  the  muse  of  coming  time 

Indignant  speak  of  them, 
"Who  Freedom's  brightest  jewel  rent 

From  her  proud  diadem; 
And  lash  with  her  contemptuous  scorn 

The  men  who  gave  the  stroke, 
That  desecrates  the  place  where  stood 

Our  brave  old  Charter  Oak! 


THE    BLACKSMITH. 

'Tis  evening.     At  his  sombre  trade 
.     The  burly  blacksmith  sings, 
While  underneath  his  rapid  strokes 

The  sounding  anvil  rings: 
The  hot  and  glowing  iron  bar, 

As  his  strong  hammer  swings, 
A  sudden  shower  of  fiery  sparks 

Athwart  the  darkness  flings. 

Now  giveth  he  the  hardening  steel 

A  keenly  tempered  edge  ; 
Now  by  his  lusty  blows  is  wrought 

The  rough  and  clumsy  wedge; 
Anon  aloft,  with  mighty  strength 

He  whirls  the  ponderous  sledge. 
Which  falls,  as  falls  a  catapult. 

The  massive  bar  to  s wedge. 


60 


The  water  in  the  cooling  trough 

Looks  black  along  the  brim, 
Where,  peeling  from  the  plunging  bar. 

The  hissing  cinders  swim. 
The  roaring  fire  emits  a  glow 

That  lights  his  visage  grim, 
And  brings  to  view  the  wondering  boys 

Who  come  to  gaze  at  him. 

Quite  powerless  in  his  sturdy  grasp 

Stands  yonder  stubborn  ox; 
He  claps  him  in  a  wooden  vise, 

And  turns  its  leathern  locks; 
And  having  thus  suspended  him 

In  quadrupedal  stocks, 
Nails  up  his  hoofs  with  less  remorse 

Than  joiners  nail  a  box. 

Our  blacksmith  is  a  jovial  man. 

Who  loves  a  quiet  joke. 
And  sometimes  at  the  village  inn 

His  thirsty  clay  will  soak; 
And  once,  upon  town-meeting  day. 

He  took  the  stand  and  spoke. 
And  raised  three  cheers  for  Harry  Clay, 

And  sundry  groans  for  Polk. 


61 


Such  was  our  blacksmith: — but  alas! 

He  glads  our  eyes  no  more: 
He  left  for  Californian  mines 

In  search  of  golden  ore; 
He  left  his  bellows  by  the  forge, 

His  tools  upon  the  floor, 
And  left  beside,  I  blush  to  say, 

A  wife  and  children  four. 


THE    PARSON. 

When  I  was  young  and  fond  of  noise, 

And  wore  my  first  gray  homespun  jacket, 
And  fought  stout  battles  with  the  boys. 

And  filled  my  father's  house  with  racket, 
Our  well-beloved  pastor  died. 

And  left  behind  him  scores  of  weepers — 
Stout  pillars  of  the  church,  long  tried, 

As  well  as  lesser  props — and  sleepers. 

He  was  a  patriarch,  wise  and  gray, 

One  of  the  old  time  christian  scholars; 
Who  cheered  affliction's  weary  way, 

And  gave  th'  oppressed  advice — and  dollars. 
The  matrons'  love  for  him,  at  last, 

Sublimed  almost  to  veneration. 
For  he'd  baptized  one-half  the  past 

And  all  the  present  generation. 


63 


Outside  the  church,  the  good  man  held 

A  comprehensive  supervision, 
And  village  quidnuncs  were  compelled 

To  bow  before  his  calm  decision. 
Though  party  strife  might  rage  and  swell, 

Or  skeptics  raise  some  knotty  question. 
There  came  no  storm  he  could  not  quell. 

No  doubt  too  grave  for  his  digestion. 

I  do  remember  well  the  scene. 

When,  all  the  congregation  seated, 
He  closed  the  book  with  reverend  mien. 

And  twice  the  pregnant  text  repeated; 
And  then,  as  influenced  from  above, 

His  heart  with  holy  themes  expanding. 
Appealed  to  Faith  and  Christian  Love, 

As  well  as  human  understanding. 

His  looks,  his  tones,  his  earnest  ways 

Form  one  of  memory's  pleasing  pictures. 
As  he,  in  strong  but  homely  phrase, 

Imparted  hope  or  uttered  strictures. 
The  velvet  cap  he  always  wore. 

Whene'er  he  thumped  the  pulpit  cushion, 
Loomed  like  a  beacon  from  the  shore, 

To  warn  us  sinners  from  perdition. 


64 


The  best  of  men  a  cross  must  bear — 

So  providence  or  fate  contrive  it; 
Of  private  griefs  he  had  his  share, 

And  some  that  were  not  quite  so  private. 
He  might  conceal  the  smouldering  fire 

Of  mental  or  domestic  trial, 
But  troubles  with  the  wrangling  choir 

Were  patent  as  their  own  bass-viol. 

Of  course,  there  was  among  his  charge 

One  busy,  meddling,  ancient  maiden, 
Who  like  a  fire-ship  roamed  at  large, 

With  furtive  store  of  scandal  laden. 
She  scattered  brands  of  discord  free. 

She  slandered  and  annoyed  the  parson, 
Till  all  agreed  she  ought  to  be 

Indicted  for  constructive  arson. 

On  Wednesday  night  he  always  made 

To  us  a  quiet  pastoral  visit; 
So  when  the  bell  his  touch  betrayed 

My  Mother  never  asked  "who  is  it?" 
But  wheeling  out  the  easy  chair, 

With  its  inviting  arms  of  leather. 
She  laid  his  pipe,  with  thoughtful  care. 

And  steel  tobacco  box  together. 


65 


Those  genial  times  were  mellow  ripe, 

When  folk  were  not  inclined  to  bicker, 
If  ministers  enjoyed  a  pipe 

And  sipped  a  social  glass  of  liquor; 
So  while  his  clieerful  features  glowed, 

And  smoke-wreaths  circled  to  the  ceiling, 
His  talk  in  streams  of  wisdom  flowed. 

Like  waters  from  a  fount  of  healing. 

We  loved  the  man,  revered  him  too — 

As  who  did  not  that  ever  knew  him? 
His  piety  and  kindness  drew. 

With  cords  of  love,  all  classes  to  him. 
His  praise  by  men  need  not  be  lipped 

To  make  our  sorrowing  hearts  beat  faster, 
For  memory  holds  a  secret  crypt 

Wherein  is  shrined  our  sainted  Pastor. 


A    PICTURE. 

'Tis  but  a  picture — just  a  bit 

Of  canvas  touched  with  paint — 
Where  I  can  see,  amid  the  trees, 

A  gable  old  and  quaint; 
A  skiff  that  swings  beneath  the  bank, 

A  distant  mountain  peak, 
A  summer  sky  where  all  is  blue 

Except  one  crimson  streak. 

It  is  the  place  where  in  my  youth 

I  used  to  laugh  and  play — 
0  long  ago,  before  I  dreamed 

Of  love-locks  turning  gray. 
There  is  the  broken  wall  through  which 

Stray  cattle  used  to  pass. 
And  the  same  sheep  I  used  to  chase 

Are  nibbling  at  the  grass. 


67 


There  stands  the  meditative  cow 

Knee-deep  in  August  mud, 
Whisking  the  same  old  hurry  tail, 

And  dining  on  her  cud: 
And  underneath  the  willow  tree 

That  droops  above  the  stream, 
A  horse,  with  sympathetic  droop. 

Leans  lazily  to  dream. 

At  rest  along  the  village  green. 

The.  morn's  ablutions  done, 
The  silent  geese,  with  sentry  set. 

Are  winking  at  the  sun; 
And  just  before  the  school-house  step 

The  hens  are  in  the  dirt. 
Upheaving  pungent  clouds  of  dust 

With  unexpected  flirt. 

And  in  the  V  which  forms  the  fence 

That  symmetry  defies, 
A  frisky  colt  is  kicking  at 

The  pertinacious  flies; 
While  just  upon  the  other  side, 

In  funniest  sort  of  heap. 
Three  petted  calves,  with  frequent  stretch, 

Are  growing  in  their  sleep. 


68 


The  air  is  in  a  slumberous  calm; 

No  leaf  nor  twig  astir; 
The  very  partridge  roosts  as  if 

She  never  meant  to  whirr. 
No  cat  nor  dog  is  now  abroad, 

No  bird  is  on  the  wing, 
And  even  Katydid  forgets 

Domestic  woes  to  sing. 

The  foot-path  through  the  pasture  lot 

That  skirts  the  alder  clump. 
And  leads  across  the  bubbling  spring 

By  yonder  ancient  stump. 
Has  lost  its  morning  power  to  tempt 

My  languid  steps  that  way. 
As  underneath  the  spreading  elm 

In  clover  heaps  I  lay. 

I  know  the  spot — it  takes  me  back 

To  days  of  Indian  bread. 
When  I  had  very  slender  feet. 

And  quite  a  largeish  head; 
The  head  had  little  in  it  then. 

And  never  ached,  as  now — 
But  Time  has  figured  out  a  sum, 

Like  DaboU's,  on  my  brow. 


69 


There  was  no  shadow  on  my  path 

In  that  remembered  day, 
Nor  did  I  know  how  sad  it  was 

To  have  a  note  to  pay; 
Then  grandma  always  favored  me 

With  purest  milk  for  lunch — 
But  I've  got  bravely  over  that, 

And  take  it  now  in  punch! 


PLACE    BY    THE    SEA. 

I  HAVE  found  just  the  spot  that  I  wanted, 

The  place  I  have  looked  for  so  long, 
Where  the  climate  is  really  enchanting, 

The  air  full  of  unwritten  song. 
Where  the  women  are  riant  and  rosy. 

And  dress  as  their  grandmothers  did. 
Where  the  old  folks  are  happy  and  cosy. 

And  children  behave  as  they're  bid. 

It's  a  place  by  the  edge  of  the  ocean. 

With  the  charmingest  sort  of  a  beach, 
And  picturesque  rocks  on  the  margin, 

Which  the  billows  are  chafing  to  reach; 
Where  the  meadows  slope  down  to  the  breakers, 

And  breakers  dance  up  to  the  land — 
The  debateable  region  between 'em 

A  surf-beaten  crescent  of  sand. 


71 


Serene  are  the  skiea  of  the  summers, 

As  Italy  ever  could  boast, 
And  sweet  is  the  breath  of  the  breezes 

That  hallow  the  loveable  coast. 
The  surf,  booming  over  the  ledges, 

The  dreamiest  melody  makes, 
That  comes  to  the  ear  like  the  murmur 

The  sea-shell  forever  awakes. 

The  place  is  remarkably  quiet, 

Where  steam  whistles  never  are  heard; 
Where  the  plover  is  tame  as  the  robin. 

The  woodcock  a  let-a-lone  bird. 
It's  too  far  away  for  the  sportsman 

To  come  with  his  pestilent  gun. 
And  too  great  a  distance  from  railroads 

For  lovers  of  fashion  and  fun. 

The  men  are  not  talking  of  dollars. 

Unless  they  have  something  to  sell; 
And  go  to  a  church  every  Sunday 

That  boasts  neither  organ  nor  bell. 
The  women  are  simple  and  modest. 

Though  willing  enough  to  be  seen, 
But  would  shy  at  the  last  style  of  bonnet, 

And  blush  at  a  stiff  crinolme. 


72 


There  the  sea  air  gives  relish  to  chowder; 

There  apples  will  keep  into  spring; 
There  the  rot  is  unknown  to  potatoes, 

And  corn  is  a  very  sure  thing. 
The  chickens  you  find  on  the  table 

Are  old-fashioned  pullets,  and  fat. 
And  the  lamb  that  you  get  is  not  mutton- 

And  surely  there's  something  in  that. 

No  telegraph  startles  the  dreamer 

"With  news  of  the  shocking  and  vile, 
Though  a  newspaper,  printed  in  Boston, 

Enlightens  folk — once  in  a  while! 
No  Irishman  comes  with  his  blarney — 

It's  out  of  the  way  of  his  priest — 
And  of  all  the  inducements  to  tarry 

This  last  is  not  one  of  the  least. 

Moreover,  they  tell  me  that  never 

Was  poverty  known  in  the  town; 
That  the  poorest  have  money  invested. 

And  pay  for  their  purchases  down. 
It  follows  that  one  thing  is  lacking. 

And  that's  a  poor  rhymer  like  me: — 
So  I  think  I  will  pack  up  to-morrow 

And  go  to  that  place  by  the  sea! 


EVENING    BY    THE    SEA. 

The  gold  and  crimson  flush  of  day 

Has  faded  from  the  west, 
And  evening's  breezes  rise  and  play 

Along  the  ocean's  breast; 
The  waves  come  rolling  to  the  shore 

With  low  and  mournful  sound, 
As  if  strange  footsteps  on  its  floor 

Were  echoing  around. 

Thin  mists  are  gathering  on  the  deep 

In  vapory  folds  of  light, 
And,  as  along  its  verge  they  creep, 

Seem  spirits  of  the  night. 
Arising  from  their  hidden  caves, 

Far  down  the  depths  of  green. 
And  resting  on  the  surging  waves 

Their  silver  crests  to  screen. 
10 


74 


The  giant  rocks,  in  gloomy  pride, 

Frown  down  upon  the  main, 
And  their  swart  shadows  in  the  tide 

Frown  darkly  back  again. 
The  long  and  level  sandy  beach 

Fades  narrowing  out  of  sight, 
As  if  its  yellow  sands  might  reach 

Beyond  the  wall  of  night. 

The  far-off  sky  that  spans  the  world 

Bends  in  a  broader  arch. 
While  clouds  beneath  it  are  unfurled, 

Gray  in  their  upward  march: 
They  lose  themselves  the  stars  among. 

That  seem  but  looking  through, 
As  if  the  smoke  of  incense  hung 

Along  the  dome  of  blue. 

The  vesper  star  is  burning  bright 

In  dazzling  beauty  now. 
As  if  it  softly  stooped  to  light 

Old  Ocean's  wrinkled  brow; 
A  beacon  set  within  the  sky 

By  an  Almighty  hand. 
For  angel  hosts  to  journey  by 

Through  yonder  blessed  land. 


75 


At  such  a  still  and  lonely  hour, 

Beside  the  restless  sea, 
The  presence  of  an  unseen  power 

Seems  hovering  over  me; 
Strange  undulating  waves  of  sound 

Pass  trembling  overhead. 
And  leave  a  silence  so  profound 

My  soul  is  filled  with  dread. 


FROST    WORK. 

What  proof  is  there  that  Autumn,  with  its  sheaves, 
Is  such  a  sad  and  melancholy  season? 

Though  bilious  poets  mope  among  its  leaves. 
That's  no  good  reason! 

Say  you  the  gusty  winds  forlornly  sigh, 
And  fill  the  air  with  lamentable  wailing? 

Well,  so  do  lovers  when  their  hearts  beat  high — 
Yet  they're  not  ailing. 

The  gipsy  squirrels  make  the  pleasant  wood 
To  echo  with  their  freaks  and  merry  gambols; 

For  they  delight,  as  all  good  fellows  should. 
In  Autumn  rambles. 

The  burly  bees,  those  wanderers  far  and  free. 
Are  waxing  lazy  now  that  summer's  over; 

For  even  bees  don't  always  want  to  be 
Living  in  clover. 


77 


See  from  yon  creaking  press  the  fragrant  must 
Foams  in  the  vats,  in  circles  wide  and  wider, 

Making  mouths  water,  and  frail  mortals  lust 
After  new  cider! 

Then  strew  the  way  with  idyls  and  bucolics — 

Hail  to  nut  gatherings  and  Thanksgiving  musters! 

Welcome  ye  "apple-bees"  and  husking  frolics, 
Where  beauty  clusters. 


Adorned  with  gorgeous  leaves — 0  say  not  sere! 

The  forest  leans  against  the  mountain  hoary; 
Of  all  the  glorious  scenes  that  crown  the  year 

The  crowning  glory! 

Give  me  my  strolls  in  Autumn's  brown  arcades, 
My  moonlight  loiterings  in  dismantled  arbors. 

And  sighs  may  burthen  antiquated  maids 
And  pensive  barbers; 

Or  ease  the  Miss  who  pens  a  new  "romaunt," 
And  melts  in  tears  o'er  her  poetic  riches, 

But  whose  cerulean  hose  betray  a  want 
Of  friendly  stitches! 


OLD    ROBIN. 

What  time  the  wheat  was  in  the  ear, 
And  all  the  flax  was  boiled, 

Within  the  breasts  of  Robin's  friends 
Funereal  bells  were  tolled. 

Faint,  silver  bells — unseen,  unheard, 

Except  by  those  alone, 
Whose  hearts  the  pensive  cadence  drank 

And  echoed  back  its  tone. 

And  who  is  Robin,  that  young  hearts 
Are  thus  disturbed  for  him? 

For  whom  unwonted  lips  are  pale. 
And  eyes  with  moisture  dim? 

Alas!  he  was  their  favorite  Horse— 
The  loved,  the  true,  the  tried; 

The  horse  that  never  ran  away, 
And  never,  never  shyed! 


79 


Then  pause  and  listen,  Fanny  dear, 

While  I  the  tale  rehearse. 
And  here  embalm  his  memory 

In  horsepitable  verse. 

He  was  indeed  a  noble  steed — 

Of  honored  stock  was  he, 
Who  up,  far  up  the  stream  of  time 

Could  trace  his  pedigree. 

On  regimental  training  days 

He  was  a  goodly  sight. 
As  with  a  trampling  hoof  he  rushed 

Into  the  thickest  fight. 

The  stirring  music  of  the  drum. 
The  shout  of  soldiers  grim. 

The  clash  of  arms,  the  cannon's  roar, 
Were  a  delight  to  him. 

But  this  was  Robin's  patriot  side, 

His  holiday  address; — 
Behold  him  at  his  daily  tasks 

And  love  him  not  the  less. 

With  conscious  look  and  lively  pace, 
As  if  his  work  were  play. 

Sagacious  Robin,  true  as  steel. 
Pursued  his  even  way. 


80 


If  reason  blends  with  instinct's  powers 

Let  learned  doctors  tell; 
But  it  is  true  that  Kobin  knew 

Each  gentle  playmate  well. 

And  when  around  his  littered  stall 

The  noisy  children  ran, 
His  voice  proclaimed  his  happiness 

As  plain  as  whinny  can. 

And  every  day  their  love  for  him 
Still  strong  and  stronger  grew, 

While  he  returned  each  fond  caress 
With  horse-affection  true. 

But  these  delights  are  over  now, 

And  love  alone  abides; 
For  all  his  warrior  work  is  done, 

And  all  his  peaceful  rides. 

Ah!   never  more  his  answering  neigh 

The  listening  ear  shall  fill — 
He  sleeps  in  peace  beside  the  brook 

That  washes  Copper  Hill. 

And  I,  who've  known  him  long  and  well, 

His  gentleness  and  worth. 
Who  oft  have  heard  his  praises  sung 

Beside  his  master's  hearth, 


81 


I  act  the  Minnesinger's  part — 
The  mourning  harper  play, 

And  from  my  sympathetic  heart 
Pour  this  elegiac  lay. 


11 


ALBUM    VERSES. 

You  ask  me  for  an  Album  rhyme 
In  such  a  modest  sort  of  way, 

I'm  doubtful  if  my  pen  this  time 
Should  have  its  usual  lawless  sway. 

Well — we  will  see.     No  dainty  dreams 

Adorn  my  dull  poetic  shelf, 
And  so,  for  lack  of  livelier  themes, 

I'll  write  about  the  book  itself. 

A  lady's  Album,  now-a-days, 
Is  like  the  quaint  Kaleidoscope, 

Where  brilliants  out  of  pebbles  blaze, 
And  clearest  amber  springs  from  soap. 

Where  locks  of  hair,  too  red  to  burn, 
Outvie  the  plumage  of  the  dove. 

And  lumps  of  lead,  all  blushing,  turn 
To  statues  of  the  God  of  Love. 


83 


Diy  wisps  of  oaten  straw  will  change 
To  Cupid's  emblematic  darts, 

And  kidney  beans,  with  impulse  strange. 
Swell  straightway  into  throbbing  hearts. 

Here  sentimental  wheys  and  curds, 
Whipped  in  the  poet's  frothy  strain, 

Rise  all  sublimed — like  simple  words 
Delivered  in  brave  Pistol's  vein. 

And  cooing  turtles  on  their  niest 
Outrival  peacocks  in  their  cries, 

While  sighs  that  heave  the  lover's  breast 
Like  -Etna's  lava  belchings  rise. 

Turn  the  machine — the  leaf  I  mean — 
And  what  is  only  common  ore. 

Will  shine  like  nuggets  that  are  seen 
By  wanderers  on  Pactolus'  shore. 

If  boys  and  girls  who  write, -alas! 

For  this  Kaleidoscopish  book, 
Would  squint  but  once  behind  the  glass. 

They'd  never  take  a  second  look. 

Love's  flame  would  smoulder  into  smoke. 
Wild  Passion's  flood  exhale  in  gas; 

Eternal  vows  turn  out  a  joke. 
And  every  lover  prove  an  ass. 


TO    A    CAGED    LION. 

Monarch  of  India's  burning  plain! 
Where  once  in  undisputed  reign 

Thou  held'st  despotic  sway; 
Lord  of  the  desert  once,  and  King — 
Thou  who  a  dauntless  glance  could  fling 

Back  to  the  god  of  day! 
There's  terror  still  upon  thy  brow, 
And  pomp  about  thee,  even  now. 

How  great,  how  fallen!     Caged  and  chained 
By  him  on  whom  thou  once  disdained 

To  cast  contemptuous  look; — 
Those  iron  bars,  that  narrow  floor. 
The  confines  of  that  prison  door, 

How  can  thy  spirit  brook! 
Throbs  yet  thy  all  unconquered  heart 
As  when  it  played  the  monarch's  part? 


85 


Methinks,  when  fettered  in  a  cage, 
With  one  resistless  roar  of  rage, 

And  madness  uncontrolled, 
Thy  great  heart,  at  the  very  first, 
Should  in  its  agony  have  burst 

Beneath  the  captive  hold. 
Worthy  thy  life,  old  King,  would  be 
Such  death  to  set  thy  spirit  free. 

Yet  here  thou  art,  shut  up  and  cramped, 
With  all  thy  haughty  ardor  damped. 

Ignobly  shown  about; 
A  terror  to  each  childish  fear, 
The  subject  of  full  many  a  jeer, 

From  many  a  rabble  rout — 
A  living  lesson  to  the  world, 
How  low  a  monarch  may  be  hurled. 

Yet  all  thy  greatness  is  not  fled — 
Thou  hast  a  solemn,  measured  tread, 

As  in  thy  loftier  days; 
Majestic  still  thine  eye-balls  flash. 
That  sternly  mortal  eyes  can  dash 

AVhen  they  return  thy  gaze. 
Thou  art  Imperial!     And  no  chains 
Can  base  the  blood  in  royal  veins. 


86 


Say  what  they  may,  thy  spirit  dwells 
Unconquered  still — and  freedom  swells 

Within  thy  breast  till  death: 
Thou,  as  thy  sires,  wast  born  to  rule. 
And  thy  King-passion  cannot  cool. 

But  with  thy  latest  breath: 
Though  servile  cliains  around  thee  cling, 
Still  art  thou  "every  inch  a  King!" 


THE    MENAGERIE. 

Did  you  ever!     No,  I  never! 

Mercy  on  us,  what  a  smell! 
Don't  be  frightened,  Johnny  dear — 

Gracious!   how  the  jackalls  yell! 
Mother,  tell  me,  what's  the  man 

Doing  with  that  pole  of  his? 
Bless  your  precious  heart,  my  dear, 

He's  stirring  up  the  beastesses. 

Children,  don't  you  go  so  near: — 

Heavengs!   there's  the  Afric  cowses; 
What's  the  matter  with  the  child? 

My!  the  monkey's  tore  his  trowses. 
Here's  the  monstrous  elephant — 

I'm  all  a  tremble  at  the  sight; 
See  his  mighty  toothpick,  boys — 

Wonder  if  he's  fastened  tight? 


88 


There's  the  lion — see  his  tail! 

How  he  drags  it  on  the  floor; 
Sakes  alive!   I'm  awful  scared 

To  hear  the  horrid  creature  roar. 
Here's  the  monkeys  in  their  cage, 

Wide  awake  you  are  to  see  'em; 
Funny,  aint  it; — how  would  you 

Like  to  have  a  tail  and  be  'em? 

Johnny  darling,  that's  the  bear 

As  tore  the  naughty  boys  to  pieces; 
Horned  cattle! — only  hear 

How  the  dreadful  camel  wheezes! 
That's  the  tall  giraffe,  my  boy, 

Who  stoops  to  hear  the  morning  lark- 
'Twas  him  who  waded  Noah's  flood, 

And  scorned  the  refuge  of  the  ark. 

There's  the  bell!     The  birds  and  beasts 

Now  are  going  to  be  fed; 
So  my  little  darlings,  come. 

It's  time  for  you  to  be  abed. 
Mother,  'tis'nt  nine  o'clock — 

You  said  we  need'nt  go  before; 
Let  us  stay  a  little  while — 

Want  to  see  the  monkeys  more! 


89 


Cries  the  show-man,  "Turn  'em  out! 

Dim  the  lights!     There,  that  will  do; 
Come  again  to-morrow,  boys, 

Bring  your  little  sisters  too." 
Exit  mother,  half  distraught. 

Exit  father,  muttering  "bore!" 
Exit  children,  blubbering  still, 

"Want  to  see  the  monkeys  more!" 


12 


THE    WEDDING. 

All  solemnly  the  wily  priest 

Stood  by  with  his  abettors, 
Conspiring  how  to  bind  two  hearts 

In  everlasting  fetters. 

And  while  to  reach  the  chancel  rail 
The  groom  his  bride  was  leading, 

No  mortal  raised  a  warning  voice 
To  stay  the  rash  proceeding. 

The  smooth  divine  then  subtly  wove 

His  magic  web  around  them, 
And  firmly  knit  the  tightening  coils 

That  mystically  bound  them. 

He  caught  them  by  their  christian  names. 

Artistically  clever. 
And  with  an  ambidextrous  twist 

Entangled  them  forever. 


91 


The  relatives  looked  calmly  on, 

Nor  any  harm  mistrusted, 
But  with  a  strange  composure  saw 

The  fatal  noose  adjusted. 

The  last  support  being  knocked  away, 

The  lady  and  her  lover 
Plunged  headlong  into  married  life. 

And  all  the  show  was  over. 

A  slight  sensation  stirred  the  crowd, 
Who  murmured  an  "amen,"  sir. 

As  though  the  law  and  gospel  too 
Were  satisfied  again,  sir. 

The  victims  then  were  borne  away 
Beyond  the  reach  of  warden. 

With  feelings  near  akin  to  those 
Who  traveled  over  Jordan. 

The  rail-car  seized  them  in  its  jg-ws, 
While  we  looked  on  in  horror, 

Persuaded  that  no  man  could  tell 
Where  they  would  land  to-morrow. 

Well,  let  them  go.     It's  all  too  late 

For  respite  or  repentance. 
As  Heaven's  celestial  telegraph 

Has  registered  the  sentence. 


THE    RAIL. 

I  MET  him  in  the  cars 
Where  resignedly  he  sat; 

His  hair  was  full  of  dust, 
And  so  was  his  cravat; 

He  was  furthermore  embellished 
By  a  ticket  in  his  hat. 

The  conductor  touched  his  arm 
And  woke  him  from  a  nap, 

When  he  pjave  the  feeding  flies 
An  admonitory  slap, 

And  his  ticket  to  the  man 
In  the  yellow-lettered  cap. 


93 


So,  launching  into  talk, 

We  rattled  on  our  way. 
With  allusions  to  the  crops 

That  along  the  meadows  lay — 
Whereupon  his  eyes  were  lit 

With  a  speculative  ray. 

The  heads  of  many  men 
Were  bobbing  as  in  sleep, 

And  many  babies  lifted 
Their  voices  up  to  weep; 

While  the  coal  dust  darkly  fell 
On  bonnets  in  a  heap. 

All  the  while  the  swaying  cars 
Kept  rumbling  o'er  the  rail, 

And  the  frequent  whistle  sent 
Shrieks  of  anguish  to  the  gale. 

And  the  cinders  pattered  down 
On  the  grimy  floor  like  hail. 

When  suddenly  a  jar. 

And  a  thrice  repeated  bump. 
Made  the  people  in  alarm 

From  their  easy  cushions  jump: 
For  they  deemed  the  sound  to  be 

The  inevitable  trump. 


94 

A  splintering  crash  below, 
A  doom-foreboding  twitch, 

As  the  tender  gave  a  lurch 
Beyond  the  flying  switch. 

And  a  mangled  mass  of  men 
Lay  writhing  in  the  ditch. 

With  a  palpitating  heart 
My  friend  essayed  to  rise; 

There  were  bruises  on  his  limbs 
And  stars  before  his  eyes, 

And  his  face  was  of  the  hue 
Of  the  dolphin  when  it  dies. 


I  was  very  well  content 
In  escaping  with  my  life, 

But  my  mutilated  friend 
Commenced  a  legal  strife — 

Being  thereunto  incited 

By  his  lawyer  and  his  wife. 

And  he  writes  me  the  result, 
In  his  quiet  way,  as  follows  ;- 

That  his  case  came  up  before 
A  bench  of  legal  scholars. 

Who  awarded  him  his  claim 
Of  Fifteen  Hundred  Dollars. 


MEDITATIONS 

ON  A  PORTRAIT  OF  BAYARD  TAYLOR. 

Thou  man  of  Fez,  of  Bagdad  and  Morocco — 

Thou  lotus-eater  on  the  dreamy  Nile: 
Who,  undismayed,  hast  met  the  fierce  sirocco, 

And  courted  danger  with  a  quiet  smile, 

This,  then,  is  You!     Begirt  with  scarf  and  turban, 
Your  hand  light  resting  on  a  sabre's  hilt, 

An  oriental  nomad!     Yet  half  urban, 

Enough  to  show  no  Yankee  blood  is  spilt, 

Nor  yet  dried  up,  nor  changed  its  natural  courses: — 
But  still  pulsating  through  your  vigorous  veins. 

The  native  heart  obeys  its  native  forces. 

True  to  its  own  remembered  hills  and  plains. 

And  you  have  wandered  through  old  Egypt's  valleys. 
And  floated,  spell-bound,  on  the  moon-lit  Nile? 

Panned  by  the  breeze  that  with  the  daylight  rallies. 
To  fill  the  sail  that  shades  your  brow  the  while: 


96 


Where  Pyramids  repose  in  classic  grandeur, 

"Where  Memnon  stands,  but  speaks  no  more  at  morn; 

Land  where  the  curtain  fell  on  Park  and  Lander, 
Just  as  its  folds  were  opening  up  the  dawn. 

Land  of  strange  mysteries  and  stranger  knowledge, 
More  beautiful  that  distance  makes  it  dim. 

Shadowed  by  that  old  time,  when  ne'er  a  college 
Granted  diplomas  to  an  Isis  grim. 

Who  now  shall  follow  up  those  unknown  waters. 
And  pluck  the  secret  from  that  country's  heart? 

And  tell  if  Africa  has  lovely  daughters. 
Dwelling  amid  yon  mountain  air  apart  ? 

They  wait  the  advent  of  some  gallant  Bayard, 
On  whose  warm  lip  to  press  the  electric  kiss. 

Fraught  with  the  influence  of  an  orient  Naiad, 
To  link  fair  Cleopatra's  time  with  this. 

What  undiscovered  realm  you  next  will  write  of. 
No  breathing  mortal  guesses  now,  nor  knows; 

But  we  may  hear  from  you  as  soon  in  sight  of 
The  Ural  mountains  or  Kamtschatka's  snows. 

Perhaps  from  Eden's  bowers  of  primal  roses — 
Or — still  more  distant — from  a  frail  balloon. 

Whose  wings  shall  bear  you  where  you  may  touch  noses 
With  him  who  sways  the  Empire  of  the  Moon! 


97 


Well,  go  your  ways.     But  ere  you  go  forever, 

To  wander  thro'  strange  lands  that  now  lie  darkling. 

Give  us  one  Lecture  more,  bold,  bright  and  clever, 
Instinct  with  life,  and,  like  old  Nilus,  sparkling. 

Then  will  we  say,  "God  speed  you!"     And  at  parting 
Bestow  our  benediction,  brief  but  solemn — 

The  hope  still  growing,  from  your  hour  of  starting, 
That  we  shall  meet  again — in  your  next  volume! 


13 


THE    PORTRAIT. 

'Tis  very  odd — and  yet  there  is 

A  slight  resemblance  too: 
Although  a  stranger  well  might  ask 

If  this  were  meant  for  you. 
There's  too  much  roundness  to  the  cheek- 

The  lips  are  all  too  red; 
And  those  are  natural  curls,  my  love, 

That  glorify  the  head. 

The  maid  has  such  a  conscious  look 

Of  bashfulness  and  fun, 
That  one  would  guess  her  half  coquette. 

And  half  demurest  nun:  -  . 
Or  deem  some  merry  devil  lurked 

Within  those  angel  eyes, 
To  tempt  deluded  man  astray 

With  hopes  of  paradise. 


99 


And  did  you  really,  truly  wear 

That  charming  bodice-waist, 
With  its  provoking  open  front 

So  exquisitely  laced? 
If  low-necked  dresses  then  were  made 

So  wonderfully  low. 
Pray  tell  me  .why  it  is  that  now 

You  never  wear  them  so? 

How  could  an  artist  ever  gaze 

Upon  those  glowing  charms. 
Nor  throw  his  frenzied  brush  away 

To  clasp  them  in  his  arms? 
Yet  he  might  paint  you  as  you  sit 

Beside  the  cradle  now, 
Without  a  tremor  of  the  hand. 

Or  flush  upon  his  brow. 

Well,  never  mind.     Although  the  hair 

That  droops  beneath  your  cap 
Has  lent  its  gold  to  that  young  rogue 

Who  slumbers  in  your  lap, 
Yet  when  the  baby's  grown  a  boy. 

And  wears  a  jaunty  hat. 
You  then  may  say  to  him,  that  once 

His  mother  looked  like  that! 


I    REMEMBER. 

I  REMEMBER,  I  remember 

The  school-house  on  the  hill, 
And  the  floggings  that  I  there  received 

Live  in  my  memory  still; 
And  It  remembers  me  as  well. 

For  where  the  scholars  sat. 
My  name  upon  the  bench  is  carved 

In  letters  long  and  fat. 

I  remember,  I  remember 

How  at  the  play-spell  hour 
The  Deacon's  apples  disappeared, 

That  were  so  green  and  sour, 
And  how  the  haymow  kept  them  safe 

'Till  they  were  mellow  grown. 
And  fragrant  as  a  dewy  rose 

That  is  but  newly  blown. 


101 

I  remember,  I  remember 

My  precious  mother's  care, 
How  she  would  scour  my  Sunday  face, 

And  comb  my  tangled  hair; 
And  0  the  pennyroyal  tea — 

Dread  colic's  antidote! 
And  all  the  bitter  stuff  she  poured 

Down  my  rebellious  throat. 

I  remember,  I  remember 

The  cake  I  used  to  crib. 
And  the  dark  room  where  they  shut  me  up 

Wliene'er  I  told  a  fib! 
And  do  I  not  remember  well 

The  supple  twig  of  birch. 
That  tingled  on  my  back,  when  I 

Did  not  behave  at  church! 

I  remember,  I  remember 

The  long  bright  holiday, 
And  all  the  little  ragged  boys 

With  whom  I  used  to  play; 
We,  in  those  frolic  hours  of  glee. 

Were  boys  together  then, 
But  now  I  find,  to  my  surprise. 

Those  little  boys  are  men! 


"THE    GOOD    OLD    TIMES." 

The  glorious  Autumn  comes  again, 

With  voices  full  of  glee, 
But  I  am  sad — for  times  are  not 

As  once  they  used  to  be; 
When  all  the  girls  wore  homespun  gowns, 

And  shoes  with  leather  strings. 
And  never  tliought  of  crinolines, 

And  such  expansive  things. 

Once  I  enjoyed  the  Autumn  days 

Among  the  upland  trees. 
Where  chestnuts  by  the  bushel  fell. 

With  every  passing  breeze. 
And  reached  my  home  at  supper  time 

With  bag  or  basket  full. 
To  find  the  mug  of  cider  there 

For  me  to  "take  a  pull!" 


lOS 

And  there  were  dreamy  evening  hours, 

In  cold  and  frosty  weather, 
When  we  before  the  cheery  fire 

Were  seated  all  together; 
The  women  with  their  knitting  work. 

The  boys  with  each  a  book, 
"Old  Bose"  asleep  upon  the  hearth. 

And  puss  within  the  nook. 

But  now  I  spend  the  weary  nights 

Unfriended  and  alone. 
And  hear  no  more  the  hearty  laugli 

At  jokes  in  banter  thrown: 
I  gaze  into  my  stupid  grate 

And  picture  old  times  there. 
And  only  wake  to  find  the  scene 

A  castle  in  the  air. 

0  how  I  long  for  such  good  times 

As  once  I  used  to  know, 
When  not  a  girl  at  singing-school 

But  liked  me  for  a  beau: 
For  every  thing  I  knew  is  changed,' 

From  its  accustomed  look, 
Except  my  old  Arithmetic 

And  Webster's  Spelling  Book! 


TO    A    CITY    PUMP. 

0  Pump!   that  workest  with  an  iron  will, 

(Thy  well  forged  handle  justifies  the  phrase — ) 
I've  known  thee  long,  and  come  to  try  my  skill. 

Though  late,  in  weaving  stanzas  to  thy  praise. 
The  neighboring  housemaids  know  thee  too,  full  well, 

And  oft  have  fondled  thy  familiar  spout. 
While  jaunty  aprons  swiftly  rose  and  fell, 

In  unison  with  arms,  red,  bare  and  stent. 

And  now,  0  pump!   thou'rt  robed  as  winter  is, 

Ice-ribbed  and  crowned  with  tiara  of  snows; 
The  frost,  grotesque,  illumes  thy  sober  phiz, 

And  tips  with  pendant  icicle  thy  nose. 
The  overflowing  and  abundant  tide. 

Frozen  in  dangerous  hillocks  at  thy  feet, 
GivGS  careless  comers  an  unlucky  slide, 

When  bruised  heads  untender  curb-stones  meet. 


105 


The  vigorous  plying  of  incessant  hands 

Hath  worn  thy  handle  till  it  shines  amain, 
And  thy  poor  nozzle,  clasped  by  brazen  bands, 

Will  soon  be  sought  by  wondering  maids  in  vain. 
Thy  blessings  have  been  bounteously  poured  out, 

Morn,  noon  and  night,  through  many  a  weary  day, 
'Till  time  and  use  have  quite  destroyed  thy  spout, 

And  left  thee  now  an  emblem  of  decay. 

Ye  Naiad  votaries  of  this  frail  machine. 

Pause,  and  reflect  upon  its  fallen  state! 
Time's  warning  finger  on  the  Pump  is  seen. 

Which  points  no  less  to  your  impending  fate. 
Bethink  you,  slipshod  nymphs!    and  thinking,  pray 

That  when  life's  sorrowing  troubles  all  are  o'er, 
You  may  awake  to  hail  a  brighter  day. 

Where  toil  shall  cease,  and  pumps  be  worked  no  more. 

Decay  strides  onward  with  resistless  power: 

Man  trembles  at  the  dread  destroyer's  name. 
And  at  the  last  inevitable  hour 

Sinks  in  dismay,  and  owns  its  awful  claim. 
Kings,  empires,  worlds,  obey  the  great  behest, 

And  disappear  beneath  the  stream  of  time, 
Submerged,  in  one  incongruous  mass  to  rest. 

With  thee,  0  Pump!   and  this  elegiac  rhyme. 


14 


TWILIGHT. 

An  hour  for  meditation, 

For  calm  and  quiet  thought, 
When,  sometimes,  bright  ideas. 

But  often  er  colds  are  caught. 
No  nightingales  are  waking 

To  charm  us  with  their  jugs. 
But  the  air  is  full  of  beetles 

And  other  lesser  bugs. 

There  are  predatory  night-hawks 

Like  omens  in  the  air, 
And  multitudinous  fire-flies 

Are  blinking  every  where. 
The  torch-like  summer  lightning, 

Guides  Thetis  to  her  bed, 
While  her  disappointed  lover 

Is  grumbling  overhead. 


107 

The  breath  of  the  syringoes, 

Incomparably  sweet, 
Is  mingled  with  the  odors 

From  gutters  in  the  street; 
The  westering  breeze  is  laden 

With  uncongenial  savors — 
Too  liberally  dispensing 

Its  complicated  favors. 

The  moonlight  in  the  tree  tops 

A  silver  tissue  weaves, 
While  the  caterpillar  army 

Is  fattening  on  the  leaves; 
And  a  nervous  pair  of  cat-birds, 

Who  inhabit  yonder  nest, 
With  a  matrimonial  squabble 

Are  preparing  for  their  rest. 

Thus  sitting  by  my  window. 

Where  the  gaunt  musketo  sings, 
I  am  suddenly  made  aware  of 

A  rushing  pair  of  wings; 
And  an  ugly  apparition 

Upsets  the  table  mat. 
And  on  the  floor  lies  sprawling 

A  palpitating  bat. 


108 

Now  comes  in  requisition 

The  duster  and  the  broom, 
And  the  blundering  vile  intruder 

Is  ejected  from  the  room. 
But  the  tender  hour  of  twilight 

Is  tender  now  no  more, 
As  the  streams  of  perspiration 

Adown  my  forehead  pour. 

The  affinity  to  gas-light 

By  insect  fiends  displayed, 
Bids  me  close  my  open  window. 

As  a  sort  of  barricade. 
Good  night  to  zephyr  breezes, 

To  moonbeams  and  to  bugs — 
Good  night  to  fragrant  roses. 

And  their  enemies  the  slugs. 


COCKNEY    LYRIC. 

Again  is  Spring's  delicious  breath 

All  over  this  gay  world  of  ours, 
Awaking  from  their  winter's  death 

Green  grass,  and  buds  and  fragrant  flowers. 
Yon  busy  cloud  its  drapery  spreads. 

And  with  the  dallying  south  wind  flirts, 
'Till  the  big  drops  beat  on  our  heads — 

Wrung  fitful  from  its  trailing  skirts. 

Ah,  how  refreshing  is  the  rain, — 

Heaven's  sponge  is  squeezed,  and  lo!   the  flood. 
While  cooling  heated  streets  again. 

Turns  whirling  wreaths  of  dust  to  mud: 
It  drips  upon  my  Sunday  hat. 

It  wrinkles  my  cravat  askew; 
It  crimps  ray  well  starched  collar  flat. 

And  soaks  my  trowsers  througli  and  through. 


i 


no 

But  now  the  pleasant  shower  is  past — 

The  kindly  sun  looks  out  once  more, 
And  blades  of  grass  start  up,  aghast. 

By  gutter's  edge  and  cellar  door; 
Scant  samples  of  dame  nature's  dress — 

They  meet  my  meditative  gaze, 
'Till  dreams  of  Jersey  come  to  bless 

And  set  my  fancy  in  a  blaze. 

So  journeying  by  the  zigzag  stairs, 

(Almost  as  crazy  as  my  rhyme,) 
Above  the  city's  poisonous  airs. 

Up  to  the  house's  top  I  climb. 
And  what  a  glorious  sight  to  see — 

This  mighty  mass  of  brick  and  mortar, 
From  Bull's  Head  to  the  Battery, 

Encircled  all  around  with  water. 

So  Moses  stood  on  Pisgah's  height. 

And  viewed  afar  the  long  sought  scene, 
111  rapture  there  beheld  the  sight, 

With  Jordan's  swelling  flood  between, 
This  be  my  Pisgah!     And  at  hand, 

(My  Jordan,)  rolls  fair  Hudson's  wave. 
Where  dear  Hoboken — promised  land! 

Stoops  down  its  jewelled  front  to  lave. 


A    CHARGE    OF    INFANTRY. 

Betsy's  got  another  baby! 

Darling,  precious  little  tyke! 
Grandma  says — and  she  knows,  surely- 

That  you  never  saw  its  like. 
Isn't  it  a  beaming  beauty — 

Lying  there  so  sweet  and  snug? — 
Mrs.  Jones,  pray  stop  your  scandal; 

Darling's  nose  is  not  a  pug! 

Some  one  says  'tis  Pa  all  over. 

Whereat  Pa  turns  rather  red, 
And  to  scan  his  features,  quickly 

To  a  looking-glass  has  fled; 
But  recovers  his  composure 

When  he  hears  the  nurse's  story, 
Who  admits,  that  of  all  babies 

This  indeed 's  the  crowning  glory. 


112 

Aunt  Belinda  says  she  guesses — 

Says  indeed  she  knows  it  poz — 
That  'twill  prove  to  he  a  greater 

Man  than  e'er  its  father  was; 
Proving  thus  the  modern  thesis 

Held  by  reverend  doctors  sage, 
That  in  babies,  as  in  wisdom. 

This  is  a  progressive  age. 

Uncle  Tom  looks  on  and  wonders 

At  so  great  a  prodigy; 
Close  and  closer  still  he  presses, 

Thinking  something  brave  to  see. 
Up  they  hold  the  babe  before  him, 

While  they  gather  in  a  ring, 
But  alas!   the  staggered  uncle 

Vainly  tries  its  praise  to  sing. 

As  he  stares,  the  lovely  infant, 

Nestling  by  its  mother's  side. 
Opes  its  little  mouth,  and  smiling. 

Gurgles  forth  a  milky  tide. 
Uncle  tries  to  hide  his  blushes. 

Looks  about  to  find  his  hat. 
Stumbles  blindly  o'er  a  cradle, 

And  upsets  the  startled  cat. 


113 

Round  about  the  noisy  women 

Pass  the  helpless  stranger  now, 
Raptured  with  each  nascent  feature, 

Eyes  and  mouth  and  chin  and  brow: 
And  for  this  young  bud  of  promise, 

All  neglect  the  rose  in  bloom. 
Eldest  born,  who,  quite  forgotten, 

Pouts  within  her  lonely  room. 


16 


THE    SEWING    MACHINE. 

"Got  one?    Don't  say  so!     Which  did  you  get? 

One  of  the  kind  to  open  and  shet? 

Own  it  yourself?     How  much  did  you  pay? 

Does  it  go  with  a  crank,  or  a  treddle — say? 

I'm  a  single  man  and  slightly  green, 

Tell  me  about  your  sewing  machine." 

Listen,  my  boy,  and  hear  all  about  it. — 
I  don't  know  how  I  could  do  without  it. 
I've  owned  one  now  for  more  than  a  year, 
And  like  it  so  well  I  call  it  "my  dear!" 
'Tis  the  cleverest  thing  that  ever  was  seen, 
This  wonderful  family  sewing  machine! 


115 

It's  none  of  your  notable  Wheeler  things, 
With  steel-shod  beak  and  cast  iron  wings; 
Its  work  would  bother  an  hundred  of  his, 
And  is  worth  a  thousand! — Indeed  it  is. 
And  has  a  way — you  needn't  stare — 
Of  combing  and  braiding  its  own  back  hair! 

Mine  is  not  one  of  those  stupid  affairs 

That  stands  in  a  corner  with  what-nots  and  chairs; 

And  makes  that  dismal  headache-y  noise. 

Which  all  the  comfort  of  sewing  destroys; 

No  rigid  contrivance  of  iron  and  steel, 

But  one  with  a  natural  spring  in  the  heel! 

Mine  is  one  of  the  kind  to  love. 

And  wears  a  shawl,  and  a  soft  kid  glove; 

Has  the  merriest  eyes,  and  a  dainty  foot, 

And  sports  the  charmingest  gaiter  boot. 

And  a  bonnet  with  feathers,  and  ribbons,  and  loops, 

And  any  indefinite  number  of  hoops. 

None  of  your  patent  machines  for  me. 

Unless  Dame  Nature's  the  patentee; 

I  like  the  sort  that  can  laugh  and  talk, 

And  take  my  arm  for  an  evening  walk; 

That  will  do  whatever  the  owner  may  choose, 

With  the  slightest  perceptible  turn  of  the  screws! 


116 


One  that  can  dance,  and — possibly ^flirt ; 
And  make  a  pudding  as  well  as  a  shirt: 
One  that  can  sing  without  dropping  a  stitch, 
And  play  the  housewife,  lady  or  witch: 
Ready  to  give  the  sagest  advice, 
Or  do  up  your  collars  and  things  so  nice. 

What  do  you  think  of  my  machine? 

Better  than  anything  else  you've  seen? 

It  isn't  a  stiff  mechanical  toy. 

But  supple,  and  lithe,  and  warm,  my  boy! 

With  a  turn  for  gossip,  and  household  cares — 

(Which  include,  you  know,  the  sowing  of  tares.) 

Tut,  tut — don't  talk.     I  see  it  all; — 
You  needn't  keep  staring  so  hard  at  the  wall; 
I  know  what  your  fidgety  fumblings  mean — 
You  would  like,  yourself,  a  sewing  machine! 
Well,  get  one  then; — of  the  same  design — 
There  were  plenty  left  where  I  got  mine. 


THE    GEOLOGIST    TO    HIS    LOVE. 

Some  busy  gnome  has  been  at  work 

With  cabalistic  art, 
And  changed  to  yielding  pumice-stone 

My  fossiliferous  heart, 
Which  seems,  to  be  as  tender  now 

As  crumbling  mica-slate, 
While  its  component  parts  are  in 

A  strange  transition  state. 

Your  charms  are  pictured  on  my  brain 

In  carboniferous  words. 
As  plainly  as  on  Hadley  rocks 

The  tracks  of  ancient  birds. 
And  strata  of  new  feelings,  love, 

Crop  out  as  strong  and  bold 
As  sandstone  from  the  hillside  crops 

Above  the  rocks  of  old. 


118 

And  through  my  daily  life  there  runs 

The  most  delightful  thoughts, 
As  runs  a  thread  of  precious  ore 

Through  cold  auriferous  quartz; 
And  as  the  secondary  rocks 

The  primal  overlap, 
So  this  alluvial  sentiment 

Is  quite  distinct  from  trap! 

Beneath  your  gaze,  I  do  believe ^ 

Basaltic  boulders  thrill, 
And  that  Mount  Tom  itself  would  throb 

Obedient  to  your  will. 
So  might  your  glances  turn  a  brick 

To  purple  amethyst, 
And  change  to  passion's  willing  slave 

A  cold  geologist. 

The  humid  rays  your  eyes  emit 

Would  warm  a  stalagmite. 
And  their  ethereal  hue  outvies 

Prismatic  iolite. 
Then  look  with  favor,  as  I  thus 

Impulsive  break  my  mind. 
As  I  would  break  a  block  of  flint 

Medasval  life  to  find. 


119 

I  have  no  doubt  that  love  can  claim 

Volcanic  origin, 
And  that  th'  arterial  fount  is  where 

Its  subtle  fires  begin. 
Its  calide  permeates  all  my  life, 

As  lustre  does  the  spar, 
And  courses  through  my  tingling  veins 

Like  fumes  of  cinnebar. 

Then  prithee  fix  the  happy  time — 

The  incandescent  hour. 
When  coral  artists  shall  arise 

To  deck  our  bridal  bower; 
And  if  some  tender  aerolites 

Should  answer  Hymen's  knock, 
We'll  classify  the  specimens. 

My  love,  as  cradle  rock. 


PISCATORY. 

My  thoughts  had  been  so  long  of  earth, 

I  sought  for  scenes  to  vary  'em, 
So,  pondering,  stopped  awhile  to  look 

At  Mr.  G-.'s  aquarium. 
The  clear  transparent  wall  of  glass 

Displayed  an  odd  interior. 
As  full  of  life,  if  not  as  wide 

Or  deep  as  Lake  Superior. 

Uneasy  bullheads,  up  and  down, 

Gyrated  through  the  lucid  flood, 
In  search  of  their  lost  Paradise, 

An  Eden  of  congenial  mud; 
Like  poor  forlorn  Evangeline 

They  waste  their  days  in  vain  endeavor, 
And  emulate  that  dreary  maid. 

In  wandering  to  and  fro  forever. 


121 

The  military  perch  is  there, 

"With  his  portcullis  on  his  back, 
And  where  his  bristling  armor  comes 

The  lesser  rabble  clear  the  track; 
Then  troutlings  have  a  sudden  call 

To  start  for  some  remoter  sphere, 
And  the  young  minnows  seek  the  shade 

Of  green  umbrageous  foliage  near. 

The  lazy  lizard  moves,  and  shows 

His  fingered  hands  and  human  eyes, 
That  might  beguile  a  nurse  to  wait 

And  listen  for  his  baby  cries. 
But  lift  your  microscopic  tube. 

And  what  an  awful  change  is  there — 
A  monstrous  dragon  looms  in  sight. 

Enough  to  stir  St.  George's  hair! 

Around  the  pebbles  at  their  base 

The  shrubs  their  feeble  rootlets  coil, 
Beneath  the  infant  shad,  that  swims 

Unconscious  of  a  future  broil. 
While  flattened  out  against  the  glass 

An  idle  slug  tenacious  clings. 
Like  to  a  blind  repulsive  bat. 

Without  his  ribbed  and  leathery  wings. 


16 


122 

Within  this  narrow  lake  I  see 

The  life  that  ocean  dwellers  live, 
Where  infusoria  is  the  meat, 

The  only  meat  their  markets  give. 
But  ah,  I  miss  my  bivalve  friends. 

And  search  in  vain  the  shallow  sea, 
To  find  the  high-born  oyster  maid 

That  loved  a  clam  of  low  degree. 

And  thereby  hangs  a  sad,  sad  tale 

Of  aqueous  loves,  and  hopes,  and  fears. 
That  well  might  heave  your  tender  breast. 

And  fill  your  gentle  eyes  with  tears. 
Some  other  time  I  may  rehearse 

The  tragic  tale — and  tell  you  how 
The  wretched  parent  slew  the  clam — 

But  have  no  heart  to  do  it  now. 


BOB. 

Dear  Robert,  we  have  been  good  friends 

From  youth  to  lusty  prime, 
And  you  have  lent  me  sage  advice 

In  prose,  full  many  a  time — 
Which  small  account  I  now  propose 

To  liquidate  in  rhyme. 

The  women  deem  a  single  man 

A  misanthropic  thing. 
Who  ought  to  'tend  a  turnpike  gate. 

Without  a  chance  to  swing, 
And  never  hear  a  marriage  bell 

'Till  he  a  belle  shall  ring. 


124 

The  world  is  full  of  waiting  girls, 

And  you  are  in  the  wrong, 
When  you  prevent  from  willing  lips 

The  sweet  hymeneal  song, 
And  hear  instead  the  plaintive  cry, 

"Why  tarries  he  so  long!" 

'Tis  something  more  than  monotone — 

This  passion-breathing  sob, 
And  seems  designed  of  pleasant  dreams 

A  bachelor  to  rob; 
So  prithee  take  one  to  your  arms 

And  make  her  happy,  Bob! 

It  even  stirs  our  married  nerves 

To  see  the  pouting  girls 
Spreading  their  nets  and  crinolines. 

And  letting  down  their  curls. 
And  radiating  smiles  enough 

To  melt  the  iciest  churls: 

To  see  the  jaunty  gaiter  boots 

Along  the  pathway  trip. 
And,  where  they  clasp  the  silken  hose, 

A  tantalising  slip 
Of  'broidery,  that  provokes  the  sight 

At  every  dainty  dip. 


126 

Much  more  should  it  distract  the  man 

Who  only  dreams  of  bliss, 
Nor  knows  the  thrill  that  permeates 

A  matrimonial  kiss, 
Which  he  may  freely  give  and  take, 

Yet  never  give  a-miss. 

We  know  tliat  your  accomplishments 

Are  not  so  very  rare, 
And  that  you  cannot  even  play 

Nor  sing  "Begone  dull  care:" — 
Yet  with  a  wife  you'd  duet  soon, 

And  improvise  an  air! 

Moreover,  you  must  need  a  wife 
To  see  to  shirts  and  things. 

And  keep  you  from  the  pokerish  path 
That's  full  of  traps  and  springs, 

As  well  as  to  protect  your  cash 
From  its  proverbial  wings. 

A  man  may  have  a  noble  head, 
A  tongue  that  hates  a  fib; 

A  form  to  please  Praxiteles, 
And  money  bags  ad  lib., 

But  what's  the  use  of  all  these  gifts 
If  he's  without  a  rib? 


126 

Don't  flout  me  with  the  fox,  who  wished 
His  friends  to  share  his  pain; — 

That  this  is  not  a  case  in  point 
Is  most  intensely  plain; 

He  lost  his  ornamental  half, 
Which  I  would  have  you  gain. 

Now  here  is  brave  advice,  my  boy. 
Which  you  will  take,  of  course, 

And  if  within  a  twelvemonth's  time 
You  don't  admit  its  force, 

Why,  any  Indiana  judge 
Will  grant  you  a  divorce! 

And  if  my  arguments  should  fail 

To  have  convincing  weight. 
The  succedaneum  at  the  close 

May  prove  a  tempting  bait — 
For  with  this  legal  safety-valve, 

A  man  may  laugh  at  fate! 


TAKE    IT    EASY. 

Admit  that  I  am  slightly  bald — 

Pray  who's  to  blame  for  that? 
And  who  is  wiser  for  the  fact 

Until  I  lift  my  hat? 
Beneath  the  brim  my  barbered  locks 

Fall  in  a  careless  way, 
Wherein  my  watchful  wife  can  spy 

No  lurking  threads  of  gray. 

What  though,  to  read  compactest  print, 

I'm  forced  to  hold  my  book 
A  little  farther  off  than  when 

Life's  first  degree  I  took? 
A  yoke  of  slightly  convex  lens 

The  needful  aid  bestows, 
And  you  should  see  how  wise  I  look 

With  it  astride  my  nose. 


128 

Don't  talk  of  the  infernal  pangs 

That  rheumatism  brings — 
I'm  getting  used  to  pains  and  aches, 

And  all  those  sort  of  things. 
And  when  the  imp  Sciatica 

Makes  his  malicious  call, 
I  do  not  need  an  almanac 

To  tell  me  it  is  Fall. 

Besides,  it  gives  one  quite  an  air 

To  travel  with  a  cane, 
And  makes  folk  think  you  "well  to  do, 

Although  you  are  in  pain. 
A  fashionable  hat  may  crown 

Genteelest  coat  and  vest, 
But  ah!   the  sturdy  stick  redeems 

And  sobers  all  the  rest. 

A  man  deprived  of  natural  sleep 

Becomes  a  stupid  elf. 
And  only  steals  from  father  Time 

To  stultify  himself: 
So  if  you'd  be  a  jovial  soul, 

And  laugh  at  life's  decline, 
Take  my  advice — turn  oif  the  gas 

And  go  to  bed  at  nine! 


129 

An  easy  cushioned  rocking-chair 

Suits  me  uncommon  well, 
And  so  do  liberal  shoes — like  these — 

"With  room  for  corns  to  swell; 
I  cotton  to  the  soft  lambs'  wool 

That  lines  my  gloves  of  kid, 
And  love  elastic  home-made  socks — 

Indeed,  I  always  did! 

But  what  disturbs  me  more  than  all, 

Is  that  sarcastic  boys 
Prefer  to  have  me  somewhere  else 

When  they  are  at  their  noise; 
That  while  I  try  to  look  and  act 

As  like  them  as  I  can. 
They  will  persist  in  MiSTEK-ing  me. 

And  calling  me  a  man! 


17 


HOLIDAY    RHYMES. 

That  Christmas  is  coming  we  know  from  the  wagons 
All  laden  with  turkeys  about  the  street  corners; 

From  shows  in  shop  windows  of  filagreed  flagons, 
And  plum  cakes,  so  tempting  to  little  Jack  Horners. 

From  toys  which  the  vendors  display  by  the  acre. 
From  holiday  books  with  their  fanciful  gilding; 

By  sleds  all  so  fresh  from  the  hands  of  the  maker, 
By  boys  who  are  wild  with  their  own  castle-building. 

Now  carts  from  the  country  bring  forests  of  branches. 
Of  pine  and  of  hemlock,  that,  woodsily  fragrant, 

At  church  doors  are  tumbled  in  green  avalanches. 
And  pilfered  by  many  a  juvenile  vagrant. 

Now  housewives  are  busy  with  pungentest  spices, 

With  pumpkins,  and  pastry,  and  cakes  full  of  raisins; 

With  crumpets  and  doughnuts  of  quaintest  devices. 
And  mince  pies  that  Biddy  so  daintily  "saysons." 


131 


Now  Charley  his  skates  all  excitedly  buckles, 
And,  winged  like  a  Mercury,  rushes  on  danger, 

While  Grandpa  alternately  fidgets  and  chuckles. 
To  see  that  the  rogue  to  all  fear  is  a  stranger. 

Yes,  Christmas  is  coming!     Just  look  at  the  bonnets — 
Those  birds'  nests  entangled  in  rainbows  and  roses; 

Whose  owners'  red  cheeks  would  drive  bards  into  sonnets 
Were  it  not  for  the  sight  of  their  still  redder  noses. 

That  last  line  is  shocking! — and  quite  out  of  keeping — 
And  ought  to  be  banished  from  Christmas  society; 

For  while  with  delight  youthful  pulses  are  leaping. 
Our  old  ones  should  beat  with  the  strictest  propriety. 


RHYMES    FOR    THE    TIMES. 

You  tell  me  all  breathe  freely  now — 

That  we  have  seen  the  worst, 
Because  the  gold  has  disappeared, 

And  all  the  Banks  have  burst; 
And  that  whereas  a  month  ago 

Men  trembled  with  affright, 
They  now  assume  serener  looks, 

And  times  are  coming  "right." 

An  odd  and  antithetical 

Philosophy  is  this. 
That  twists  your  friends'  financial  woe 

To  your  financial  bliss. 
Our  hopes  thus  tempt  the  tongue  to  strip 

Dilemma  of  its  horns. 
And  thus  our  bleeding  fingers  clip 

The  rosebud  from  its  thorns. 


133 

It  may  be  so. — I  know  I'm  bound 

To  think  as  others  do, 
And  fain  would  I  believe  their  words 

Are  absolutely  true. 
The  smoke  and  pudder  overhead 

Perhaps  have  passed  away, 
But  what  mean  all  these  sighs  and  moans, 

This  pallor  of  dismay? 

Ah,  let  me  pause  and  think  awhile — 

Is  this  the  traveled  road? 
The  highway  for  the  human  mind 

To  reach  its  high  abode? 
Is  gold  the  noblest  aim  of  man. 

Or  what  the  gold  will  bring? — 
Come — go  with  me  and  hear  the  birds 

In  yonder  branches  sing. 

Yes,  stroll  with  me  through  pastures  green 

Where  many  a  wild  flower  grows. 
And  tread  on  brakes  that  lend  perfume 

To  every  breeze  that  blows. 
Look  through  the  grand  old  forest  aisles 

Down  which  the  sunlight  shines. 
And  barken  to  their  monotones, 

And  smell  the  breath  of  pines. 


134 

Hark  to  the  music  of  the  brook, 

So  full  of  soft  delight; 
And  hear  the  wind-harp  in  the  trees 

That  charms  the  summer  night. 
Then  lay  your  ear  against  the  bark 

And  hear  the  chestnuts  grow, 
And  listen  to  the  quivering  leaves 

That  whisper  soft  and  low. 

Look  where  the  noble  rivers  run — 

The  life-blood  of  the  land! 
That  leave  a  blessing  ere  they  kiss 

The  ocean's  belt  of  sand. 
And  mark  the  orchards,  red  with  fruit, 

And  see  the  gardens  smile — 
0  feast  your  eyes  with  scenes  like  this. 

And  be  rejoiced  the  while. 

It  is  indeed  a  goodly  land. 

That  meets  your  earnest  gaze. 
Inlaid  with  bearded  fields  of  grain. 

And  bright  with  golden  maize. 
And  man  is  here  with  open  brow. 

And  strong  in  rudest  health; 
0  where  the  heart  is  warm  and  true, 

There  is  a  nation's  wealth. 


135 

These  pleasant  scenes  are  yours  and  mine, 

Or  may  be  if  we  choose; 
And  as  the  world  is  rosy  hued, 

Don't  tinge  it  with  "the  blues." 
Thank  God  for  health!     Take  heart  again- 

The  times  will  surely  mend, 
Though  notes  should  go  to  protest  still. 

And  all  the  Banks  suspend. 

November,  1857. 


ADVERTISEMENT. 

I  ALSO  have  a  lot  to  sell, 

Whereon  a  State  House  might  be  placed; 
A  lot  with  ancient  memories  rife, 

And  with  some  natural  beauties  graced. 
A  spot  where  antiquarian  minds 

Cannot  but  love  to  delve  and  dig, 
Whose  soil  is  rich  with  unctuous  juice 

That  fills  each  green  and  growing  twig. 

Plough  up  the  mould  in  early  Spring — 

The  self  same  odor  meets  you  then, 
As  met  the  noses  in  old  time 

Of  our  ancestral  husbandmen. 
Plant  but  a  cabbage  in  the  ground, 

And  it  will  bourgeon  just  as  fair 
As  the  primeval  cabbage  did 

Which  our  forefathers  planted  there. 


137 

The  suckers  from  the  apple  trees, 

That  Parson  Hooker  sat  beneath, 
Are  quite  as  vigorous  as  the  old, 

And  wear  as  brave  a  summer  wreath: 
Doubtless  the  vital  sap  that  fills 

The  hearts  of  those  impressive  trees. 
Thrills  to  the  voice  from  yonder  Hall 

That  loads  this  sudden  patriot  breeze. 

And  the  same  brook  that  sung  its  song 

In  those  revered  and  sainted  days, 
Still  ripples  o'er  tlie  shelving  rocks. 

Still  glistens  in  the  morning's  rays; 
But,  unlike  other  storied  streams 

That  lave  full  many  a  charming  spot, 
This  stream  has  one  especial  charm — 

It  runs  beside  my  blessed  lot! 

Here  the.  first  christian  puppy  died 

That  ever  barked  in  Hartford  town; 
Here  the  first  cat  her  litter  dropped. 

That  down  the  bank  were  cast  to  drown; 
And  here,  as  early  records  tell. 

Was  born  the  first  colonial  calf. 
Whose  advent  pleased  the  Parson  so. 

It  hindered  half  a  paragraph. 


18 


138 


Here  the  first  loving  couple  came, 

With  throbbing  hearts  and  trembling  hands, 
For  Parson  H.  to  bind  and  weld, 

And  join  in  wedloclc's  holy  bands; 
And  here  that  same  fond  couple  came 

To  have  their  first-born  boy  baptized, 
With  water  from  the  very  stream 

That  makes  my  lot  so  highly  prized. 

If  patriot  themes  are  wanted  still, 

To  raise  the  value  of  the  lot, 
I'll  tell  you  how  the  train-bands  once 

Marched  boldly  to  the  very  spot; 
And  how,  right  in  the  front  of  it. 

They  stopped  to  drill  and  exercise, 
And  beat  the  drum,  and  blow  the  fife, 

To  witch  the  youngsters'  ears  and  eyes. 

It  bears,  indeed,  a  thousand  charms, 

That  I've  no  space  to  mention  here. 
Which  cast  a  glow  around,  and  make 

Its  patriotic  title  clear. 
And  so,  while  priests  and  lawyers  write. 

And  pesky  politicians  plot. 
This,  after  all,  must  prove  to  be. 

Among  them  all,  the  likeliest  lot. 


139 

There's  land  enough — and  not  too  much- 
Historic  memories  cluster  round  it; 

The  slope  of  ground  is  just  the  same, 
Or  nearly,  as  our  fathers  found  it; 

It  is  a  legendary  nook, 

Where  olden  time  has  left  its  trace; 

Where  Parson  Hooker  lived  and  died — 
In  short — I  want  to  sell  the  place! 


THE    PARVENU. 

Ten  years  ago  I  knew  him  well — 

A  sort  of  good-for-nothing  fellow, 
Who  lounged  about  with  roots  to  sell, 

And  often  got  exceeding  mellow; 
A  hanger-on  about  the  skirts 

And  shabby  purlieus  of  society. 
Who,  guiltless  of  such  things  as  shirts. 

Enjoyed  a  dubious  notoriety. 

Indeed,  the  man  was  very  poor — 

And  what  was  worse,  extremely  lazy; 
A  kind  of  trouble  hard  to  cure. 

But  such  as  rarely  drives  one  crazy. 
His  wife  was  just  his  proper  match. 

An  idle  gossip,  and  a  slattern, 
Whose  frock,  with  time  and  frequent  patch. 

Knew  nevermore  its  native  pattern. 


141 

They  lived,  as  'twere,  from  hand  to  mouth- 
She  dawdling  over  pots  and  kettles; 

He  in  a  constant  state  of  drouth. 

And  both  in  frequent  want  of  victuals. 

Prophetic  neighbors  sagely  said 

They  were  the  fag-ends  of  creation. 

And,  from  the  vagrant  life  they  led, 
The  work-house  was  their  destination. 

But  strange  denouements  will  arise 

In  this  our  reeling  world  of  chances, 
Which  often  cause  as  much  surprise 

As  those  we  read  of  in  romances, 
Where  sometimes  men  of  small  account 

Become  inj9ated,  like  a  bladder. 
And  from  the  very  bottom  mount 

The  topmost  round  of  fortune's  ladder. 

It  happened  that  our  hero,  then, 

While  grubbing  roots,  or  culling  simples, 
Discovered  in  some  neighboring  glen 

A  prize  tliat  purpled  all  his  pimples: 
Some  common  weed,  perhaps,  that  grew 

Among  the  sumachs  or  the  teasels. 
Which  he  declared  would  pain  subdue, 

And  even  triumph  over  measles. 


142 


CompoTinding  thence  a  salve,  or  pill, 

He  advertised  it  in  the  papers, 
A  purge  for  every  human  ill — 

Consumption,  cancer,  gout,  or  vapors. 
In  short,  it  was  a  sovereign  cure 

For  all  the  aches  that  flesh  is  heir  to, 
So  safe,  so  speedy,  and  so  sure. 

That  all  the  world  its  charms  must  swear  to. 

From  New  Orleans  to  Isle  Pictou 

Its  virtues  blazed  on  post  and  pillar. 
And  many  an  ailing  mortal  knew 

The  magic  of  the  great  pain-killer. 
The  wonders  that  it  daily  worked 

Were  told  in  broad  pictorial  posters, 
And  cripples,  who  on  crutches  jerked. 

Exultant  leaped,  empiric  boasters. 

The  world  delights  in  being  gulled, 

And  loves  a  quack,  and  buys  his  nostrum. 
And  all  suspicious  thoughts  are  lulled 

Whene'er  the  juggler  mounts  his  rostrum. 
His  pill  or  salve — no  matter  which — 

Baptized  with  some  Greek  name,  or  Latin, 
Is  bought  by  poor  men,  and  by  rich. 

By  wives  in  rags,  and  maids  in  satin. 


143 


But  now  that  same  repulsive  man, 

The  once  despised  and  shiftless  sinner, 
Lives  only  as  a  nabob  can, 

Whose  Tokay  helps  digest  his  dinner. 
He  owns  a  house  of  Portland  stone, 

That  fronts  four  city  lots  by  measure, 
And  is  to  town  and  country  known 

As  blessed  with  fortune,  fame,  and  leisure. 

His  portly  form  is  daily  seen 

In  ornate  coat  and  lustrous  vesting, 
While  her  balloon-like  crinoline 

Is  most  immensely  interesting. 
And  they  who  had  no  loving  friend. 

Ten  years  ago,  to  aid  or  cheer  them, 
Have  now  a  host,  who  freely  spend 

Both  time  and  cash  to  hover  near  them. 

Their  parties — they  are  perfect  jams! 

And  of  entire  respectability; 
That  is,  a  crowd  of  snobs  and  shams 

Endorse  their  own  and  his  gentility. 
The  daily  paper  wildly  swears 

The  show  surpasses  scenes  Elysian, 
And  paints  the  gaudy  dress  she  wears 

With  all  a  milliner's  precision. 


144 

Wherever  lady  Fashion  brings 

Her  leaden  sons  and  brazen  daughters; 
Where  Newport  seaward  lifts  its  wings, 

Or  Saratoga  pours  its  waters, 
They  shed  their  patronizing  rays 

On  all  the  Joneses  and  Malonys — 
The  old  man  with  his  spanking  grays. 

And  Hopeful  with  his  tandem  ponies. 

And  she — beloved  by  parasites — 

Emerged  from  dirt  and  meagre  diet, 
Surrounded  by  her  satellites. 

Without  a  train  is  never  quiet: 
Elate  while  her  brave  jewels  blaze, 

And  robed  in  silks  of  gorgeous  pattern, 
She  shines  in  those  reflected  rays, 

As  shines  the  star-girt  planet  Saturn. 

I  saw  them  in  the  surging  crowd, 

Flushed  with  the  giddy  season's  glory, 
And  as  each  head  respectful  bowed, 

I  read  the  old  familiar  story; 
The  worm  become  a  butterfly. 

Proud  of  his  accidental  riches. 
The  grub,  transferred  to  Fashion's  sky. 

From  rags  and  more  congenial  ditches. 


THOUGHTS 

OVER  A  RAILROAD   BOND. 

It  is  a  very  pretty  thing, 

And  charmingly  engraved; 
As  neatly  gotten  up  a  cheat 

As  ever  broker  shaved. 
And  I  have  quite  a  lot  of  them, 

All  safe  and  snug  at  home, 
Enough  to  make  a  picture  book 

As  large  as  Gibbon's  Rome. 

I  thought  I  bought  them  very  cheap. 

At  only  eighty-three. — 
Indeed,  we  higgled  quite  a  time 

Before  we  could  agree; 
"What!     Eighty-three  for  ten  per  cents? 

Dear  Sir,  you  must  be  crazed — 
Yet,  I  shall  have  to  let  them  go, 

For  money  must  be  raised." 
19 


146 

Before  that  blessed  week  was  out 

I  smelt  a  sort  of  rat, 
For  I  was  told  that  I  could  buy 

For  even  less  than  that. 
My  neighbor  bought  for  seventy-six, 

I  never  asked  him  how — 
But  I  am  far  from  sad  to  learn 

That  he  has  got  them  now. 

Those  thousand  dollar  promises 

Are  printed  by  the  ream! 
And  being  secured  by  mortgages 

How  very  safe  they  seem. 
Moreover,  I  reserved  the  right 

To  change  them  into  shares, 
Whose  income  by  and  by  would  be 

A  fortune  for  my  heirs. 

The  coupons — those  delicious  things! 

How  temptingly  they  look; 
As  beautifully  lithographed 

As  Olney's  copy-book. 
Yes,  there  they  are — not  one  cut  ofif- 

The  ranks  are  perfect  yet, 
And  like  to  be,  for  all  that  I 

For  them  shall  ever  get. 


147 

The  boy  who  shows  for  half  a  dime 

Six  rattlesnakes  alive, 
Was  urging  me,  the  other  day, 

To  view  his  precious  hive: 
"I  say,  sir — want  to  see  the  snakes? 

One  on  'em's  eat  a  toad: — 
I'll  let  you  see  'em  for  a  Bond 

Of  that  'ere  Western  Road!" 

Ah  well — the  dream  is  over  now, 

And  so  I  sit  and  sigh, 
And  curse  the  day  when  oily  tongues 

Persuaded  me  to  buy: 
I  spend  my  time  with  tearful  eyes. 

O'er  their  delusive  charms, 
In  singing  sad  lugubrious  hymns 

And  penitential  psalms. 


A    BERKSHIRE    BREEZE. 

And  this  is  Berkshire!     Broad  and  bright 
The  volume  opens  to  my  sight, 
Yalleys  and  lakes  are  at  my  feet, 
And  beaded  brooks  come  down  to  meet. 
With  many  a  dash  and  arrowy  bound, 

The  calmer  stream  that  shines  below; 
Fair  stream,  that  having  sweetly  wound 
Its  loving  arms  the  hills  around. 

Lingers  to  clasp  and  keep  them  so. 

I've  seen  full  many  an  Autumn  day, 

In  many  a  bright  October, 
And  mused  beneath  the  foliage  gay, 

And  walked  the  hill  sides  sober; 
But  never,  in  my  wanderings  all. 
Did  my  delighted  vision  fall 


149 

On  lovelier  scene  than  this! 
Here,  where  the  eye  in  roving,  rests 
On  valleys  and  on  mountain  crests, 
On  hills  all  overpranked  with  trees, 
On  clouds  that  flush  yon  azure  seas — 
The  purple  clouds,  whose  folding  gates 
Seem  openings  to  the  world  that  waits — 

The  world  beyond  of  bliss. 

Here,  where  the  frost  and  sun  have  met, 

It  seems  as  if  some  airy  rover 
Last  evening's  sundown  had  upset. 

And  spilled  its  dyes  the  woods  all  over. 
0  Beauty  is  a  mountain  maid. 

And  artist  troops  unseen  attend  her; 
This  is  her  autumn  masquerade. 

And  these  her  robes  of  regal  splendor! 

Nestling  among  these  Berkshire  hills. 

Peep  out  the  pleasant  homes  of  men. 
Who,  flying  from  the  care  that  kills, 
Are  hither  come  to  rest  their  quills — 

Knights  of  the  rampant  pen ! 
Yes,  when  the  fragrant  winds  of  June 
Found  all  the  mountain  harps  in  tune; 
When  birds  made  vocal  green-leaved  bowers, 
And  wet  their  glistening  wings  in  showers; 


150 


When  the  bright  ploughshare  turned  the  mould, 

Whose  effluent  odor  filled  the  air, 
And  traveling  sheep  from  many  a  fold 

Flecked  the  steep  banks  and  pastures  fair; 
Then  did  these  town-caged  pilgrims  yearn 

To  leave  the  city's  brick  defiles. 
And  from  the  noisome  pavement  turn 

To  bask  in  Nature's  genial  smiles. 

And  hither  do  they  wend  their  way, 

Primed  for  a  long  bright  holiday; 

Here,  snug  ensconced,  and  safe  embowered 

Among  the  old  umbrageous  trees, 
Where  sentient  life  is  rosy-houred. 

They  court  luxurious  ease. 
Perhaps  they  court,  in  idle  dreams, 
'Mid  winding  paths  by  lazy  streams, 

The  half  forgotten  muse. 
And  give  imagination  play. 
While  fancy  plumes  her  airy  way 

To  bathe  in  heavenly  dews. 

Here  comes,  to  rest  his  weary  brain, 

The  overtasked  Divine, 
Hoping  to  find  surcease  of  pain 

Beneath  the  whispering  pine. 


161 

He  comes  from  probing  saddened  souls, 

From  pondering  his  great  Master's  plan, 
From  dubious  dreams  of  what  controls 

That  inconsistent  creature,  Man, 
To  read  in  Nature's  open  face 

The  secrets  that  perplex  all  Art, 
And  feel  the  dews,  the  hopes,  the  grace 

That  soothe  the  burdened  heart. 

The  breeze,  the  streams,  the  trees,  the  flowers 

Transport  him  back  to  childhood's  hours. 

And  airy  tones  around  him  swim, 

Sweet  as  his  mother's  cradle  hymn. 

He  flies  to  sports,  that,  when  a  boy 

Filled  his  elastic  life  with  joy; 

And  seizing  fishpole,  line  and  hook. 

With  stealthy  tread  seeks  out  the  brook; — 

Impales,  unmoved,  a  fellow-worm. 

Sees  it  in  tortuous  wri things  squirm. 

Adroitly  casts  the  hair-line  out. 

Stops — listens — -jerks — and  lo!   a  trout! 

Thus  day  by  day  he  beats  the  stream, 
'Till  tired  and  sunburned — yet  elate — 
He  sees  the  season  culminate. 
And  wakes  from  his  delightful  dream. 
So  having  at  his  ease  amassed 
SuflScient  health  and  strength  to  last 
'Till  winter's  toilsome  march  be  passed, 


152 

Takes  one  long  breath  his  lungs  to  fill, 
Repacks  his  Edwards  on  the  Will, 

And  back  from  whence  he  came; 
There,  in  vexed  waters  never  still, 
Beneath  the  great  tree  Ygdrasil, 

To  fish  for  nobler  game. 

And  here's  the  summer  haunt  of  him, 
Whose  fancy  most  delights  to  skim 

The  glittering  sea  of  fun; 
A  brimming,  broad  and  liberal  sea, 
Before  whose  breezes,  dancing  free. 

His  shallop  loves  to  run. 
That  light  barque  never  comes  to  shore 
Without  a  freight  of  precious  ore; 
For  pregnant  is  the  bellying  sail, 
And  perfumed  is  the  favoring  gale 

That  bends  the  taper  mast; 
And  when  his  pennant  points  to  land. 
Impatient  listeners  crowd  the  strand. 

Awaiting  Holmes'  last! 

And  this  long  promised  son  of  song. 
For  whom  the  world  has  waited  long. 
Though  baptized  in  Castalia's  dews. 
Stands  lightly  toying  with  the  muse. 
He,  to  his  own  intense  delight, 
Provokes  our  whetted  appetite, 


163 

With  intellectual  whips  and  creams, 
And  such  like  after-dinner  themes; 
Gives  us  the  play  hours  of  his  wits, 
In  tantalizing  crumbs  and  bits; 
Just  lifts  the  screen,  that  we  may  guess 
What  hoards  of  wealth  behind  it  press, 
'Till,  though  rebellious  midriffs  ache, 
And  non-resistant  muscles  break. 
Yet,  with  our  nerves  relaxed  and  sore. 
Like  Dickens'  boy  we  cry  for  More! 

Let  pedants,  if  they  will,  condemn 
The  luscious  fruit,  too  rich  for  them. 

For  jaundiced  eyes  too  fair. 
But  should  they  peel  the  velvet  rind. 
And  squeeze  the  juicy  pulp,  they'd  find 

The  seeds  of  wisdom  there. 

Sworn  foe  to  humbug  and  to  cant. 
He  rips  the  windy  bags  of  rant; 
Strips  from  conceit  the  lion's  skin, 
And  lets  the  tell-tale  sunlight  in, 

On  empty  heads  to  shine. 
His  wretched  victims  writhe  and  quail, 
With  inward  pangs  and  visage  pale, 
As  if  the  wag  had  dipped  his  pen 
In  some  unsavory  albumen. 

Or  antimonial  wine! 

20 


154 


And  when  he  tunes  his  harp  to  Spring, 

How  clear  the  liquid  notes! 
The  birds  rush  by  on  whistling  wing, 

And  soft  the  choral  music  floats. 
Beneath  his  footsteps  crush  the  flowers — 
The  lordly  elm  above  him  towers; 
The  maple  buds  in  clusters  fair 
Hang  trembling  garlands  in  the  air. 
And  the  lithe  birch  its  tassels  swings, 
Witched  by  the  west  wind's  winnowing  wings. 

The  hyacinth  and  daffodil 
Their  perfume  through  his  verse  distill; 
Among  his  leaves  a  dainty  group 
Of  lilies  of  the  valley  droop; 
The  fragile  fern  its  fingers  spreads. 
Pale  mountain  daisies  lift  their  heads. 
The  snow-drop  turns  its  sweet  lips  up. 
The  tulip  flaunts  its  gaudy  cup; 
The  purple  lilac's  fragrance  comes 
To  wile  the  bees  from  winter  homes; 
The  mayflower  wakes  with  Easter  tides. 
And  like  a  wood-nymph  coyly  hides; 
The  cowslip  from  its  velvet  bed 
Just  lifts  its  unpretending  head; 
The  honeysuckle  flings  perfume 
Above  where  purple  violets  bloom. 
And  golden  buttercups  uplift 
A  chalice  for  night's  dewy  gift. 


155 


One  need  not  seek  the  warming  fields 

To  watch  the  early  blossoms  gcow, 
His  page  the  same  aroma  yields, 

And  there  you  feel  them  bud  and  blow. 
His  floral  groves  and  rustling  trees 
"  Smell  of  the  woods  and  morning  breeze," 
And,  cheated  by  the  bright  ideal 

The  wondrous  minstrel's  flinging  o'er  you. 
His  prismy  sketches  all  seem  real. 

And  Spring's  embroidery  lies  before  you. 

And  in  his  thoughtful,  pithy  lines 
The  welcome  news  transparent  shines, 

"This  is  the  coming  man!" 
One  single  phrase  admits  the  fact. 
That  half  his  powers  are  held  intact. 
When,  as  to  pose  us  puzzled  wights. 
He  tells  us  that  he  never  writes 

So  funny  as  he  can! 

Considerate  bard!   to  spare  the  lives 
Of  us  and  of  our  precious  wives, 
By  keeping  on  an  even  poise 
The  valve  that  stops  explosive  noise. — 
But  ah!   if  through  a  sad  mistake. 

In  some  unguarded  hour. 
He  should  omit  to  watch  the  brake. 
What  awful  work  the  slip  would  make. 

What  wrecks  proclaim  his  power! 


156 

Buttons  would  fly,  and  waistbands  burst — 

Men  tumble  in  convulsions  dire, 
While  wailing  infants,  halfway  nursed, 
Would  shriek  to  see,  prone  in  the  dust, 

Their  mothers  and  their  hopes  expire; 
Strong  featured  men  would  find  their  jaws 

Expanded,  like  a  rose  full  blown. 
And,  chuckling  o'er  the  exciting  cause. 

Forget  amid  their  pains  to  groan. 
In  droves  they  would  go  wild  and  die. 
And  piled  along  the  pathway  lie, 

Like  suicidal  gnomes; 
And  "crowners'  juries"  all  would  find. 
In  most  irreverent  frame  of  mind, 

"Died  from  excess  of  Holmes!" 


LINES, 

WBITTEN    FOR   THE    CENTENNIAL    CELEBRATION   AT    WOODBURY. 

Mysterious  notes  were  abroad  on  the  air — 
Significant  hints  of  some  weighty  affair: 
Rumors  increased  'till  they  rose  to  a  shout,- 
And  now  we  all  see  what  the  stir  was  about. 

Ye  modest  admirers,  who've  nothing  to  say, 
Make  room!   for  spread-eagle  is  coming  this  way. 
We  stand,  as  it  were,  in  our  forefathers'  shoes, 
And  the  time  for  tall  talking 's  too  precious  to  lose. 

Here  frolicksome  age  shall  grow  young  at  the  core. 
And  youth  shall  strike  hands  with  the  boys  of  threescore; 
Brim  full  of  good  feeling — 0  call  it  not  folly — 
We've  assembled  on  purpose  to  laugh  and  be  jolly. 

Ye  attornies — turn  over  a  holiday  leaf; 
The  facts  are  before  you — and  here  is  the  brief! 
So  give  us  as  much  as  you  please  of  your  jaw, 
But  don't,  if  you  love  us,  don't  let  it  be  law. 


158 


Ye  grave  Boanerges — who  thunder  at  sin, 

Let  your  features  relax  to  a  good  natured  grin; 

Pretermit  theological  chaffing  and  chat, 

And  talk  about  buttercups,  birds,  and  all  that. 

Forget,  0  my  friends,  in  this  glorified  hour, 

The  Parson  who  vanquished  that  dreadful  pow-wow-er; 

But  remember  the  Backus  and  Bellamy  jokes, 

And  up  and  be  merry  like  rational  folks. 

Sink  the  shop,  0  ye  trader  in  dry  goods,  to-day — 
Just  look  at  the  prospect  right  over  the  way; 
Don't  the  sight  of  the  Pomperaug  hills  and  green  valleys 
Beat  all  your  gay  patterns  on  muslins  and  challies? 

Ye  medical  men — whose  dreams  are  of  drugs. 
Omit  for  a  while  your  professional  shrugs; 
Give  the  go-by  to  boluses,  blisters,  and  nux. 
And  think  of  the  dandelions,  daisies  and  ducks. 

Ye  farmers — the  nearest  to  Nature's  own  breast. 
Who  draw  from  her  stores  what  her  children  love  best; 
Who  irradiate  towns  with  fresh  butter  and  cheese, 
And  tickle  our  palates  with  lamb  and  green  peas; 

I  remember  your  haymows  so  fragrant  in  June; 
Your  pumpkins,  as  large  and  as  round  as  the  moon ; 
The  green  corn  we  roasted  and  ate  on  the  sly, 
And  the  rye'n'ndian  bread,  and  the — Oh!   let  us  cry! 


159 


It  makes  my  mouth  water  to  talk  of  such  things. — 

The  truth  is,  you  farmers  are  Nature's  own  kings ; 

And  the  queens!   would  you  see  the  true  test  of  their  worth? 

Just  look  at  those  boys!     Aren't  they  proud  of  their  birth! 

Of  course,  we'll  remember,  and  speak  of  with  pride, 
Seth  Warner,  and  others  who  fought  by  his  side; 
And  grand  Ethan  Allen — the  hero  all  over — 
Who  conquered  Fort  Ti.  in  the  name  of  Jehovah! 

Historians  assert  that  you'd  only  one  witch — 
But  history  makes  an  unfortunate  hitch, 
For  witches  still  flourish — as  witness  these  groups! 
Though  for  halters  and  faggots  you  substitute  hoops. 

Then  a  health  to  old  Woodbury — merry  or  grave — 
And  long  in  the  land  may  her  progeny  wave. 
Nor  forget  where  their  excellent  grandmothers  sleep, 
While  their  own  little  babies  are  learning  to  creep. 


LINES, 

READ    TO    THE   PUTNAM   PHALANX,   AT    BOSTON. 

{After  dinner.) 

It's  just  what  I  expected,  and  I  cannot  well  complain. — 
Because  a  fellow  did  it  once  you  thought  he  would  again; 
And  so,  to  meet  the  challenger  in  case  one  should  appear, 
I  brought  a  loaded  gun  along: — you  see  I  have  it  here! 


I  was  busy  with  a  customer  about  a  little  bill, 

With  one  eye  on  his  pocket-book  and  one  upon  the  till: 

The  gross  amount  was  figured  up — it  wasn't  very  large — 

And  he  had  raised  his  battle  cry,  of  "charge,  Chester,  charge!" 

When  steps  me  in  a  portly  man,  who  couldn't  see  his  knee. 
With  a  smile  upon  his  lip,  and  said  "I  want  you  Mr.  C." 
I  knew  he  was  no  constable — those  caitiffs  seldom  smile — 
And  thus  with  words  of  blandishment  my  ear  he  did  beguile. 


161 

"Our  Phalanx,  whose  ambition  soars  beyond  a  prosy  drill, 

Is  going  on  a  Pilgrimage  to  famous  Bunker  Hill; 

We  mean  to  stand,  with  hat  in  hand,  where  glorious  Putnam  fought, 

And  tread  the  soil  where  noble  deeds  by  him  were  nobly  wrought. 

We  go  with  no  inflamed  desire,  nor  any  sly  intent 

To  bring  away  by  force  of  arms  the  Charlestown  monument: — 

Although  it  were  an  easy  thing  to  do  so  if  we  chose. 

As  every  body  who  has  seen  the  stalwart  Phalanx  knows. 

And  we  want  you  to  come  along.     We'll  have  a  jovial  time — 
And  don't  forget  to  bring  with  you  a  pleasant  bit  of  rhyme. 
The  day  is  fixed  for  Tuesday  next — no  dodging  for  the  rain — 
And  pray  be  prompt,  because,  you  see,  we're  going  on  a  train!" 

Well,  here  I  am — a  little  man  among  top-booted  screamers — 
Like  to  a  clipper  'mid  a  fleet  of  huge  Great  Eastern  steamers: 
A  sort  of  rakish  letter  o' marque,  beside  my  big  compeers. 
So  let  my  signals  all  be  marked  as  meant  for  private  ears. 

I'm  told  your  mothers  know  you're  out — how  is  it  with  your  wives? 
And  have  the  thoughtful  creatures  got  insurance  on  your  lives? 
I  trust  when  you  are  safely  back  they'll  ask  no  idle  questions. 
To  answer  which  would  interfere  with  delicate  digestions. 

It  has  been  sometimes  asked  of  me,  in  quite  a  serious  way, 
If  you  in  case  of  actual  war  would  mingle  in  the  fray? 
I  answer,  yes:   and  what  is  more,  no  danger  would  you  shun, 
For  it  is  quite  impossible  that  such  great  men  should  run! 
21 


162 

No — be  assured  of  this  one  thing,  though  large  the  target  be, 
You'd  let  a  broadside  rake  your  ranks  ere  one  of  you  would  flee: 
Cocked  hats  might  wilt,  and  breeches  rip,  and  coats  be  rent  and  torn, 
Yet  still  amid  the  thickest  fight  your  banner  would  be  borne. 

Look  at  the  standard  bearer  there  and  doubt  it  if  you  can! 

And  think  if  those  odd  legs  would  save  our  excellent  Squire  Mann! 

And  Doming  too — the  enemy  would  make  a  deadly  breach 

In  every  thing  his  broadcloth  hid  ere  he  the  rear  could  reach. 

The  mental  courage  that  dilates  each  soldier's  flashing  eye. 
Would  be  excited  by  the  fact  that  he  must  do  or  die. 
So  all  ye  bull-necked  Britishers  beware  these  men  of  might — 
They  wont  surrender,  cannot  run — but,  glory!   how  they'll  fight! 

You  may  talk  about  Thermopylaes  and  Marathons  of  old; 

Of  Lodi  and  of  Waterloo,  and  all  their  heroes  bold; 

I'll  bet  a  score  of  pumpkin  pies,  and  help  the  party  eat  'em. 

That  Major  Goodwin  and  his  troop  would  give  'em  odds  and  beat  'em! 

You've  one  might  rank,  if  so  he  chose,  with  old  Demosthenes: 
And  a  lineal  son  of  that  old  Greek  we  call  Thucydides: 
And  others  who  but  bide  their  time  to  show  their  fellow  men 
That  they  can  wield,  as  Caesar  did,  the  sword  as  well  as  pen. 

One  member  may  his  patients  purge,  and  one  may  shove  the  plane, 
And  one  may  have  an  oily  tongue  and  wag  tlie  same  for  gain; 
You  may  have  merchants,  presidents,  and  men  from  toil  retired. 
But  all  with  warlike  visions  now  are  most  intensely  fired. 


163 

Your  Colt  would  shoot  a  dozen  foes,  the  while  tlie  rest  were  aiming: 
And  Ashmead's  hammer,  like  old  Thor's,  the  cohorts  would  be  maiming; 
And  Tiffany,  if  duty  called,  would  prove  no  terrapin. 
But  like  a  valiant  printer  send  a  frequent  bullet  in. 

And  where,  in  case  of  a  retreat,  would  neighbor  Strong  be  found? 
Dead — or  like  Falstaff  feigning  death — along  the  bloody  ground. 
And  Sharp  would  never  mount  the  box  with  four-in-hand  again, 
But  like  a  hunted  buffalo  loom  iip  among  the  slain. 

Well,  let  us  hope  there'll  be  no  war — we're  quiet-loving  folk — 
And  really,  after  all  that's  said,  this  fighting  is  no  joke. 
I  never  liked  the  trade,  myself,  since  I  was  quite  a  lad. 
When  Billy  Wolcott  broke  my  head,  and  pommelled  me  so  bad! 

We've  come  to  visit  Bunker  Hill.     We've  also  come  to  dine. 
Moreover,  we're  to  taste  a  glass  of  Boston  people's  wine. 
(I  wonder  if  they  would  have  thrown  such  nectar  in  the  sea. 
If  George  had  taxed  it  as  he  did  that  plaguy  lot  of  tea!) 

What  good  things  they  to-day  provide,  to-day  let  us  discuss — 
For  when  another  morning  breaks  they'll  breakfast  upon  us! 
To-morrow  they  will  surely  have,  (dressed  up  as  latest  news,) 
A  dish  of  Putnam  Phalanx  served,  to  flank  their  prandial  stews. 

Ah!   bless  those  editorial  chaps: — its  a  way  they've  got. 
Of  seizing  jokes,  like  buckwheat  cakes,  while  they  are  piping  hot ; 
And  while  the  jokers  are  abed  and  dreaming  of  new  feats, 
Those  typos  will  be  "setting  up" — and  pulling  off  the  sheets! 


164 

May  you  look  back  upon  this  day  with  patriotic  pride, 
And  with  a  keener  relish  still  your  ambling  hobby  ride; 
And  may  those  solemn  looking  hats  acquire  no  rakish  tricks, 
Nor  ever  be  a  lurking  place  for  sad  convivial  bricks. 


LINES, 

ON  THE  PRESENTATION  OF  A  WREATH  TO  THE  COMMANDER 

.  OF  THE  PHALANX,  BY  A  GRANDDAUGHTER 

OF  GENERAL  PUTNAM. 

Flowers  from  his  grave — and  by  his  Grandchild  brought! 

What  emblems  more  could  sanctify  the  scene? 
With  tender  memories  each  soul  was  fraught, 

Evoked  by  her  who  bore  that  garland  green. 
Strong  men  forgot  their  boasted  manhood  then, 

And  eyes  that  seldom  wept  with  tears  were  dim. — 
In  war's  grim  guise  her  Grandsire  conquered  men, 

She,  with  these  frail  memorials  of  him. 

Was  not  his  shadowy  presence  near  her  there, 

The  while  she  plucked  those  leaves  and  blossoms  wild? 
And  did  not  seraphs,  hovering  in  the  air, 

Pronounce  a  benediction  on  the  child? 
They  surely  did; — for,  still  unseen,  but  seeing. 

The  air  was  rife  with  their  sustaining  power. 
And,  all  intensified,  her  sentient  being 

Communed  with  his  in  that  most  holy  hour. 


THE    VOYAGE, 


A   BALLAD. 


'Tis  now  an  hundred  years  or  more,  since  on  an  Autumn  day 
A  little  fleet  from  Hartford  shores  got  slowly  under  way; 
A  little  fleet  indeed  it  was — two  schooners  and  a  scow, 
And  one  batteau  that  led  the  van  with  its  imposing  prow. 

Brave  were  the  hearts  of  those  who  manned  the  enterprising  craft, 
Men  who  had  served  apprenticeship  on  flat-boat  and  on  raft; 
And  well  they  knew  all  weather  signs,  and  when  to  beat  or  scud. 
And  every  hidden  sand-bar  knew,  and  every  reef  of  mud. 

And  as  they  rounded  old  Dutch  Point  that  juts  so  broad  and  sheer, 
They  gaily  swung  their  hats  aloft  and  gave  a  hearty  cheer; 
The  favoring  breezes  bore  them  on  and  filled  each  bellying  sail. 
Until  the  fleet  careened  before  the  keel-compelling  gale. 

Then  firmly  every  hard  glazed  hat  was  on  each  forehead  pressed, 
And  tightened  every  strap  that  girt  each  linsey-woolsey  vest; 
Firm  was  the  helm  within  the  grasp,  and  bright  the  look-out  kept, 
As  bravely  o'er  the  treacherous  bars  the  stately  squadron  swept. 


167 

The  mouth  of  Salmon  Brook  is  passed,  witch  haunted  though  it  be, 
And  starboard  shines  the  sedgy  "Cove,"  a  tranquil  summer  sea; 
And  now  the  odoriferous  gales  from  Wethersfield  are  met. 
That  with  a  pungent  moisture  make  their  tingling  eyelids  wet. 

"Sabean  odors"  freight  the  breeze  that  follows  from  the  strand, 
While  with  reluctant  nose  they  leave  the  aromatic  land; 
And  as  across  the  rail  he  leans,  each  skipper  heaves  a  sigh. 
And  wipes  the  sympathetic  tear  that  trembles  in  his  eye. 

Now  Glastonbury  looms  in  sight — there  where  the  turbid  flood 
Sweeps  round  the  swallow-punctured  banks  and  soaks  the  yellow  mud; 
And  there  it  was  the  angry  wind  came  freshening  from  the  west, 
And  sent  the  curling  waves  along  the  river's  troubled  breast. 

What  ho!   bold  seaman. — Lift  your  eyes  above  the  creaking  mast! 
The  clouds  are  hurrying  dark  and  wild,  the  scud  is  driving  fast; 
The  gulls  are  screaming  in  the  air,  the  waves  are  black  below. 
And  the  foam  beneath  your  keel  is  in  a  phosphorescent  glow. 

"  Hard  up  the  helm  and  shorten  sail ! "   the  Captain's  voice  rings  clear, 
"The  convoy  is — I  don't  know  where,  in  this  here  atmosphere; 
There  is  no  gleam  of  blessed  light  to  break  the  darkness  now — 
Our  comrade  is  clean  out  of  sight,  and  where 's  the  gallant  scow!" 

The  gloomy  clouds,  the  roaring  winds,  the  thick  and  blinding  spray 
Sent  pallor  to  the  swarthy  brows  of  stalwart  men  that  day; 
And  up  and  down  the  river  broad  the  fleet  were  scattered  wide. 
Breasting  the  storm  as  best  they  might,  withouten  chart  or  guide. 


168 

All!   me — it  was  a  fearsome  time:   stout  hearts  were  full  of  dread — 

A  dangerous  shore  beneath  their  lee,  the  storm-king  overhead! 

0  then  it  was  that  pale  dismay  sat  on  their  tell-tale  looks, 

As  they  thought  of  "bloudy  salvages,"  of  Moodus,  and  of  spooks! 

And  there  were  sounds  of  starting  pumps,  of  ropes  and  timbers  riven, 
And  all  that  sort  of  din  which  fills  a  ship  by  tempest  driven; 
The  men  all  swore  they  never  knew  the  waves  to  run  so  wild, 
Nor  never  knew,  in  all  their  lives,  the  river  so  much  r'iled. 

'Twere  vain  to  tell  of  spars  that  split  while  they  were  sadly  tossed. 
Of  pails  and  hatches  knocked  about,  and  oars  and  thole-pins  lost; 
Nor  0!   how  dreary  passed  the  night  with  each  bewildered  crew, 
While  landmarks,  and  the  land  itself  were  hidden  from  their  view. 

But  when  the  sun  shone  out  once  more,  and  weary  winds  were  still, 
And  they  found  themselves  right  off  against  the  bluflfs  of  Rocky  Hill, 
The  sight  of  pine  trees  waving  o'er  the  beetling  ledges  bold, 
Was  a  most  precious  sight  to  those  poor  sailors  wet  and  cold. 

And  then  the  haggard  skippers  joined  once  more  in  counsel  sweet. 
And  told  to  each  the  dangers  wild  that  had  beset  the  fleet. — 
One's  keel  had  grazed  upon  a  bar,  one  lost  his  grappling  hook, 
And  one  had  run  afoul  a  stump,  and  one — had  seen  a  spook! 

It  was  the  captain  of  the  scow,  the  frightful  spook  that  saw — 
And  awful  form,  amid  the  storm,  with  grim  and  bloody  jaw; 
And  it  had  two  great  burning  eyes  within  its  horrid  head, 
And  raven  wings  that  thrice  it  flapped  before  it  shrieked  and  fled. 


169 

With  anxious  fears  those  mariners  then  spread  each  time-worn  sail, 
And  one  on  other  trembling  gazed,  with  qnivering  lips  and  pale, 
The  very  wind  itself  was  awed,  and  did  forget  to  blow, 
And  so,  while  riding  out  the  calm,  they  all  went  down  below. 

But  wind  and  men  got  o'er  their  fright,  and  both  came  up  at  length, 
The  breeze  to  plume  its  drooping  wing,  the  men  to  show  their  strength; 
And  so  at  last  they  bore  away  adown  the  tranquil  stream, 
Between  the  green  and  sloping  banks,  as  in  a  pleasant  dream. 

"Help,  ho!"     A  sharp  and  sudden  cry:   a  surge — a  crash — a  shock: 
"Help  or  we  sink — the  plaguy  scow  has  struck  upon  a  rock!" 
Alarm  filled  every  seaman's  soul  and  sat  on  every  brow. 
For  sure  it  seemed  the  surging  waves  would  overwhelm  the  scow. 

But  ere  a  hand  could  reach  the  boat  or  offer  it  an  oar. 
The  treacherous  rock,  submerged,  arose,  and  paddled  to  the  shore! 
With  wonder  great  they  did  behold  the  cause  of  the  mishap. 
Which  proved  to  be  a  turtle  there  indulging  in  a  nap! 

The  steering  oar  again  is  bent — again  they  hold  their  way, 

The  white  foam  flying  from  their  keels,  and  from  their  brows  the  spray; 

Fair  Upper  Houses  now  are  passed,  and  Middletown  in  sight. 

And  every  nerve  is  strained  to  reach  their  port  before  the  night. 

All  in  good  time  the  fleet  was  moored,  wet  jackets  taken  off, 
And  rattling  fell  the  heavy  sails  as  they  swung  to  the  wharf; 
But  where  those  jovial  sailors  went,  when  all  was  right  and  tight. 
It  were  not  well  for  me  to  tell,  nor  how  they  spent  the  night. 
22 


170 


But  it  is  true  as  gospel  words,  that  on  next  Sunday  morn, 
When  worshippers  were  called  to  prayer  by  the  familiar  horn, 
Those  men  all  came  to  render  thanks,  and  pray  with  serious  lips. 
For  those  who  traffic  on  the  deep,  and  who  go  down  in  ships! 


THE    REPULSE. 

A   BALLAD. 

In  sixteen  hundred  ninety-three, 

Tlie  Charter  of  our  embryo  State 
Was  deemed  a  broad  protective  shield, 

As  potent  as  a  bond  of  fate. 
It  bore  a  front,  the  like  of  which 

No  proud  crusader's  ever  knew, 
Where  desperate  blows  from  haughty  foes 

Fell  harmless  as  the  summer  dew. 

The  king,  though  claiming  right  divine, 

Must  yet  succumb  to  public  will; 
He  might  be  strong,  but  still  would  find 

That  chartered  rights  were  stronger  still. 
Wherefore  the  stern  high-minded  men 

Who  laid  fair  freedom's  corner-stone, 
Were  prompt  to  peril  limb  and  life 

Against  encroachments  from  the  throne. 


172 

So  when  the  royal  Duke  of  York 

His  pompous  emissary  sent, 
To  take  command  of  all  our  troops, 

And  thus  the  Charter  circumvent. 
That  parchment  shield  was  found  to  wield 

A  power  no  duke  could  set  aside, 
Which  never  bent  to  Parliament, 

And  no  proud  king  could  override. 

This  fact  caused  young  Connecticut 

To  battle  stoutly  for  her  rights; — 
And  when  tall  Colonel  Fletcher  came 

He  saw  some  unexpected  sights. 
Our  notions  did  not  square  with  his, 

Which  caused  an  internecine  war. 
That  ended  only  with  the  flight 

Of  this  ill-starred  embassador. 

And  yet,  pursuant  to  his  wish. 

The  men  were  mustered  under  arms; 
And  stalwart  troops  they  were  to  see. 

With  sturdy  limbs  and  horny  palms. 
Their  Captain,  Wadsworth,  was  a  man 

Of  slender  build  and  modest  mien. 
But  who  a  loftier  spirit  bore 

Than  many  a  belted  knight,  I  ween. 


173 

The  line  was  formed.     And  Bayard  then 

In  voice  sonorous,  loud  and  clear, 
Began: — but  ere  a  page  was  read 

No  word  could  any  listener  hear. 
"Beat  drums!"   the  irate  Captain  cried, 

And  drum  it  was  with  right  good  will. 
Until  one  might  as  well  have  tried 

To  harken  in  a  fulling  mill. 

"Silence!"   the  Colonel  thundered  forth — 

And  straight  the  drummers  ceased  to  play, 
'Till  Bayard  raised  his  voice  again. 

When  Wadsworth  shouted  "Drum,  I  say!" 
"Silence,  you  rebels!"   shrieked  the  chief — 

The  dauntless  Captain  answered  "Drum!" 
And  drumsticks  flew  'till  Fletcher  stopped. 

And  then  the  sheepskin  too  was  dumb. 

The  little  Captain's  spunk  was  up — 

While  Fletcher's  face  grew  red  with  rage. 
To  find  his  Aid  was  baffled  thus 

In  reading  the  initial  page. 
"Stand  back!"   the  fearless  soldier  cried. 

As  Fletcher  glared  with  looks  of  fury — 
"Another  word,  and  this  good  sword. 

By  Jove!   shall  let  the  daylight  through  ye!" 


174 

He  did  stand  back — and,  hot  with  wrath, 

Turned  on  his  heel  to  quit  the  ground; 
For  well  he  wot  the  Captain's  words 

Were  something  more  than  empty  sound. 
His  cocked  hat  in  the  distance  loomed, 

His  angry  voice  sank  low  and  lower, 
Until  his  coat-tails  disappeared 

Behind  the  neighboring  tavern  door. 

And  thus  the  chief  who  warrant  held 

From  one  who  Royal  Duke  was  dubbed. 
In  presence  of  a  Yankee  crowd 

Was  most  incontinently  snubbed. 
Discomfited  he  stalked  away. 

Pursued  by  much  derisive  laughter, 
And  harbored  in  his  ear  a  flea 

Of  largest  size,  forever  after. 

In  gallant  trim  the  troops  moved  on. 

With  lofty  step,  to  Court-House  Square, 
Where  Captain  Wadsworth  made  a  speech 

That  stirred  each  soldier's  heart  and  hair. 
Then  with  three  cheers  for  chartered  rights, 

And  three  for  their  unsullied  flag. 
They  filed  away,  as  fife  and  drum 

Struck  up  the  vigorous  "double  drag." 


115 


The  heirs  of  that  determined  band, 

Our  Governor's  Guards,  are  living  yet, 
And  the  same  spirit  nerves  their  arms 

That  nerved  the  men  whom  Fletcher  met; 
Bear  witness  each  Election  day, 

When  those  tight-gaitered  legs  we  see 
March  to  the  tune  their  fathers  marched 

In  sixteen  hundred  ninety-three! 


THE    TORY. 


A   BALLAD. 


In  seventeen  hundred  seventy-five, 

In  one  of  fair  New  England's  towns, 
A  rabid  Tory  lurked  about, 

Regardless  of  his  neighbors'  frowns. 
Repeated  threats  had  no  effect 

To  drive  him  off  or  change  his  views, 
And  so  the  kind  persuasive  whigs 

Determined  to  apply  the  screws. 

The  Yankees  of  those  troublous  times 

When  once  resolved  were  very  stern. 
And  tories  found  at  last  that  they 

Had  some  sharp  lessons  yet  to  learn. 
The  king  might  rule  beyond  the  sea — 

But  only  whigs  could  comprehend 
That  here,  upon  our  Pilgrim  soil, 

His  reign  was  surely  doomed  to  end. 


177 

And  so  this  man  at  length  was  brought 

To  answer  for  his  flagrant  crime ; 
And  there  he  swore  that  George  the  Third 

Should  be  his  king  till  end  of  time. 
"You  must  recant,"  the  judge  exclaimed, 

"Or  else  from  yonder  tree  you  swing." — 
"Swing  and  be  damned!"   the  tory  cried, 

"I  will  be  loyal  to  my  king." 

"Not  in  our  town,"  the  boys  replied — 

So  o'er  his  head  a  noose  was  slipped, 
And  round  the  emblematic  pole 

The  ticklish  rope  was  deftly  whipped. 
And  then  they  ran  the  sinner  up 

To  dangle  in  the  air  awhile — 
-And  all  with  most  artistic  grace. 

Quite  in  experienced  hangman  style. 

A  gallows  is  a  pokerish  thing, 

However  well  or  rudely  built. 
In  sight  of  which,  though  brave  and  bold. 

The  shuddering  wretch  is  like  to  wilt. 
Indeed,  I  think  it  must  have  been 

A  shrewd  invention  of  old  Nick's, 
To  serve  as  a  suspension  bridge 

For  rogues  to  cross  the  river  Styx. 


23 


178 

But  our  unlucky  hero  thought 

This  trap  would  hardly  catch  him  yet, 
And  that  his  neighbors  would  not  dare 

To  carry  out  their  monstrous  threat. 
Thus  he  made  light  of  their  demand, 

And  scouted  at  the  whole  affair. 
As  being — what  indeed  it  proved — 

A  frolic,  that  would  end  in  air! 

While  hoisting  him  on  high,  they  cried 

"Shout  Liberty,  and  you  may  go." 
The  fellow  shook  his  stubborn  head, 

And,  as  he  landed,  bellowed  "No!" 
Again  they  ran  him  up  aloft 

To  dance  his  second  airy  jig, 
Like  to  a  warning  beacon  set 

For  any  present  lukewarm  whig. 

The  same  result.     No  rope,  he  said, 

The  freedom  of  his  will  should  bind; 
His  loyalty  was  firm  and  true. 

As  whig  committees  now  would  find. 
Once  more  the  victim  rose  in  air. 

When  things  assumed  a  serious  look; 
For  now  they  let  the  caitiff  swing 

Until  he  gurgled  like  a  brook. 


179 

"Let  go!"   and  down  the  subject  fell, 

With  features  of  a  livid  hue; 
His  bravery  was  oozing  out 

From  every  pore  his  body  knew. 
And  then  he  feebly  swung  his  hat, 

Renounced  the  king  in  rueful  tones, 
Gave  a  faint  cry  for  Liberty, 

And  then  subsided  into  groans. 

At  length  the  wretch  recovered  breath — 

And  with  lugubrious  look  of  woe. 
He  thus  in  mournful  accents  spoke 

To  those  who  had  abused  him  so: 
"You  have  the  oddest  sort  of  way 

In  making  whigs,  if  you  but  knew  it; 
But  odd  and  cruel  as  it  is, 

0  gentlemen,  it's  sure  to  do  it!" 

Here  was  a  case  where  coats  of  tar 

And  feathers  would  have  failed  to  act- 
A  case  requiring  skill  and  nerve. 

As  well  as  a  peculiar  tact; 
But  well  these  Sons  of  Liberty 

Their  special  business  understood, 
And  did  it  in  a  way  that  showed 

The  temper  of  the  neighborhood. 


180 

And  thus  this  unregenerate  man 

New  light  upon  the  subject  got, 
And  found  himself  transmogrified 

From  Royalist  to  Patriot. 
Those  stirring  boys  would  not  permit 

A  tory  wasp  about  their  hive — 
And  that's  the  way  they  managed  things 

In  seventeen  hundred  seventy-five. 


SACK    AND    SUGAR. 

A  BALLAD. 

In  seventeen  hundred  seventy-seven, 

When  blows  were  dealt  for  life  and  land, 
Fair  women  mingled  in  the  fray, 

And  lent  at  times  a  helping  hand. 
An  instance  floats  before  me  now, 

Evolved  from  memory's  smouldering  heap, 
That  once  beguiled  my  youthful  ears. 

And  lulled  my  drooping  eyes  to  sleep. 

East  Hartford — famed  for  little  else 

Than  sand  and  watermelons  now — 
Was  marked,  in  those  brave  times  of  old, 

By  quite  an  enterprising  row. 
What  time  King  George's  red-coat  force 

Strode  o'er  the  land  with  bloody  trail, 
The  sack  and  pillage  happed,  which  now 

Becomes  the  staple  of  my  tale. 


182 

Tea,  sugar,  rum,  and  other  stores. 

In  those  rough  days,  were  scarce  and  dear, 
And  folk  resorted  for  supplies 

To  measures  that  were  somewhat  queer. 
Thus,  once  in  Master  Pitkin's  store, 

All  hid  away  from  common  view, 
Were  sundry  casks  of  sugar  stowed. 

Intended  for  the  soldier  crew. 

The  women — bless  their  patriot  souls! — 

The  whispered  news  indignant  heard, 
And  straight  resolved  that  not  an  oiince 

In  British  teacups  should  be  stirred. 
The  tumult  in  their  throbbing  hearts 

Made  every  rounded  bosom  swell, 
And  caused  delighted  swains  to  flush. 

As  muslin  tuckers  rose  and  fell. 

Through  all  the  region  round  about 

The  spirit  of  adventure  swept; 
Girls  talked  of  feats  of  arms  by  day. 

And  dreamed  of  sugar  when  they  slept. 
A  rendezvous  at  length  is  fixed. 

And  Lyon's  tavern  is  the  spot, 
Where  troops  throng  in  from  Salmon  Brook, 

From  Podunk,  and  from  Pewterpot. 


183 

And  so,  that  August  afternoon, 

To  air-borne  cries  of  Katydid, 
Some  two  score  damsels  marched  away 

For  where  the  tempting  prize  was  hid. 
No  flouting  banner  mocked  the  foe, 

No  martial  music  shrieked  "we  come!" 
For  petticoats  were  flag  enough, 

And  quite  superfluous  fife  and  drum. 

Poor  badgered  Pitkin — (tory  he — 

Custodian  of  the  precious  stock,) 
Grew  pale,  as  any  tory  might. 

To  meet  this  energetic  flock. 
With  skirts  tucked  up  through  pocket  holes. 

And  arms  akimbo,  on  they  came. 
Resolved,  in  dauntless  maidenhood. 

To  strike  for  sugar,  and  for  fame! 

Aghast  the  trembling  sinner  stood, 

And  quailed  before  the  potent  power: — 
Confronted  by  a  crowd  like  this 

His  craven  spirit  well  might  cower. 
Besides — the  band  was  flanked  by  three 

Tall  sturdy  chaps  who  knew  the  plan. 
And  so,  like  valiant  Falstaff",  he 

Turned  tail  at  once  and  fairly  ran. 


184 

Elated  now,  the  victors  ramped, 

And  topsy-turvy  turned  the  things; 
Searched  his  dried-apple  lofts  and  bins, 

And  stripped  his  onions  from  the  strings: 
Ripped  portly  bags  of  feathers  loose, 

Upset  the  kettles,  pots,  and  pans. 
And  when  they  forced  the  cellar  door 

Each  female  kick  was  like  a  man's! 

At  last,  all  snugly  packed  away, 

They  found  the  luscious  prize  they  sought; 
Then  promptly  seized  a  neighboring  cart. 

And  two  recumbent  oxen  caught. 
The  casks  were  safely  rolled  aboard. 

The  excited  captain  shouted  "Go!" 
And  off  in  triumph  thus  they  bore 

The  plunder  from  the  routed  foe. 

Now,  where  that  captured  sugar  went, 

No  mortal  ear  was  ever  told; 
But  my  opinion  is,  that  all 

Beneath  true  Yankee  tongues  was  rolled: 
And  that,  indeed,  about  those  days. 

When  lovers'  lips  impulsive  met. 
The  secret  must  have  been  betrayed, 

That  it  was  somewhere  handy  yet! 


185 


Women  had  nerve  and  mettle  then, 

And  proved  their  pluck  and  prowess  too.— 
This  sketch,  suggestive,  merely  hints 

At  deeds  they  were  prepared  to  do. 
They  hated  red-coats. — And  they  knew 

That  tories  stood  small  chance  for  heaven, 
Who  prowled  about  Connecticut 

In  seventeen  hundred  seventy-seven! 


24 


NIP    AND    TUCK. 

A   BALLAD. 

'TwAS  on  a  bright  October  day, 

When  every  crimson  leaf  was  still, 
That  Gibson  took  an  early  walk 

Along  the  brow  of  Staddle  Hill. 
The  chattering  chipmunk  hears  his  step, 

With  tail  erect  and  eager  ears, 
While  master  woodchuck,  waddling  off. 

Straight  for  his  distant  burrow  steers. 

Now  Gibson  was  a  brawny  man, 

Of  lofty  port  and  mighty  limb, 
And  all  the  country  wrestlers  stood 

In  reverential  awe  of  him. 
The  famed  Athlete  could  boast  no  form 

Of  nobler  mould,  in  olden  days. 
Than  our  good  friend,  whose  ponderous  strength, 

Belied  his  gentle  thoughts  and  ways. 


187 

And  as  in  meditative  mood 

He  wandered  on  his  forest  way, 
Behold  a  bear's  neglected  cub 

Right  in  the  open  pathway  lay. — 
To  see  if  its  wild  dam  were  near 

One  searching  glance  he  cast  around, 
Then  cried  "a  prize!"  and  lightly  raised 

The  struggling  vagrant  from  the  ground. 

The  cub  across  his  shoulder  flung. 

He  started  off  with  rapid  stride, 
Mistrustful  that  the  young  one's  cries 

Might  bring  its  mother  to  his  side. 
And  so  they  did.     For  Bruin  heard, 

And  leaping  to  the  fierce  attack. 
Cried  out,  as  plain  as  bear  could  cry, 

"You  rascal,  bring  my  baby  back!" 

But  deuce  a  bit  for  that  cared  he. — 

So  straightway  starting  on  a  run. 
He  cursed  the  brute,  and  inly  wished 

That  he  had  brought  along  his  gun. 
Now  for  a  race!     The  man's  ahead. 

But  Bruin  gains  at  every  bound — 
Four  legs  are  more  than  match  for  two, 

And  Gibson's  plainly  losing  ground. 


188 

One  desperate  leap  and  Bruin's  teeth 

The  robber's  linsey-woolsey  tore; 
The  nip  was  close,  but  only  urged 

The  wounded  man  to  run  the  more. 
Another  spring — when  Gibson  dodged 

Behind  a  hemlock,  neat  and  clever, 
But  all  too  late — for  Bruin's  grip 

Had  spoiled  his  pantaloons  forever! 

Down  went  the  cub — and  Gibson  turned, 

With  rearward  smart,  to  face  the  foe. 
And  hand  to  foot  they  had  it  now. 

With  hug  for  hug,  and  blow  for  blow. 
But,  quite  accomplished  in  the  art 

To  scientific  wrestlers  known. 
The  man  displayed  most  skill,  and  soon 

His  brute  antagonist  was  "thrown." 

But  neither  one  was  freed  as  yet 

From  that  uncomfortable  hug. 
And  Bear,  defiant,  gnashed  his  teeth, 

While  Gibson  cursed  her  ugly  mug. 
To  both  the  grim  embrace  was  like 

The  anaconda's  crushing  fold. 
As  o'er  the  bank  and  down  the  hill 

The  desperate  couple,  fighting,  rolled. 


189 

The  snapping  twigs,  the  rattling  stones, 

The  clouds  of  dust  betrayed  their  track, 
Until  the  two,  with  sudden  jolt, 

Brought  up  against  a  hackmatack. 
With  one  accord  they  loosed  the  hold 

That  bound  them  in  this  social  tie, 
And  sadly  blown,  and  bruised,  and  banged. 

Each  turned  and  bid  his  foe  good-by. 

'Twas  a  drawn  game — and  victory  raised 

No  flag  when  the  encounter  ceased; 
But  that  rough  tussle  was  enough 

To  satisfy  both  man  and  beast. 
And  thus  came  off  this  raciest 

Of  all  impromptu  rigadoons. 
Where  Bruin  lost  her  precious  cub. 

As  Gibson  did  his  pantaloons! 


BALLAD. 

A  Baron  bold,  on  an  iron-gray  steed, 

Rode  forth  at  the  break  of  day, 
Whose  grim  cadaverous  looks  were  enough 

To  fill  one  with  dismay. 

Over  the  level  sward  he  rode, 

And  over  the  moorland  drear, 
'Till  reining  his  steed  by  the  good  green  wood, 

He  fiercely  paused  to  hear. 

He  plunged  his  spurs  in  the  horse's  flanks. 
And  the  horse  plunged  into  the  wood, 

And  the  forest  rang  to  his  dreadful  shout, 
As  an  orderly  forest  should. 

Before  the  rage  of  that  Baron  bold 
The  strongest  nerves  might  shrink. 

For  his  natural  ire  was  doubled  that  day 
By  a  double  allowance  of  drink! 


191 

And  as  he  flourished  his  naked  sword 

And  dared  his  foe  to  the  fight, 
There  issued  forth  from  another  wood 

Another  powerful  knight: 

A  knight  on  a  snorting  red-roan  steed, 

With  a  longer  sword  than  the  first. 
Who,  out  of  his  own  particular  wood, 

Like  a  wild  tornado  burst. 

In  about  a  quarter  of  an  hour,  or  so, 

Their  blades  were  dripping  wet, 
And  the  blood  ran  down,  as  it  always  runs, 

When  two  such  fiends  are  met. 

'Twas  a  horrible  sight  to  see  the  fight, 
As  the  sparks  from  their  armor  flew, 

And  a  matter  of  doubt  as  to  which  of  the  knights 
Was  the  drunkest  man  of  the  two. 

The  stalwart  blows  fell  thick  and  fast, 

And  the  trampled  grass  grew  red, 
Until,  with  a  trenchant  crashing  blow. 

Each  split  the  other's  head! 

And  then,  with  a  dull  and  leaden  sound, 

They  both  like  plummets  dropped. 
And  the  riderless  horses  ran  away. 

And  probably  never  have  stopped. 


192 

And  who  those  grisly  foemen  were, 

No  mortal  man  could  tell; 
For  all  unburied  they  were  left 

On  the  wet  leaves  where  they  fell. 

The  wolves  and  the  crows  had  a  grand  carouse, 

And  noisily  ate  their  fill; 
But  the  scattered  bones,  and  the  grinning  skulls 

On  the  sward  are  bleaching  still. 


THE    GARDENER. 

Peep  through  the  palings  of  your  neighbor's  fence, 
Kept  sound  and  bright  regardless  of  expense, 
And  there  behold  the  new-fledged  gardener  stand, 
Sole  owner  of  those  few  clean  rods  of  land. 
A  city  bud,  just  bursting  into  bloom. 
Who,  as  he  prospers,  wants  more  elbow-room: 
Who,  by  much  saving,  and  some  lucky  hits, 
Is  rich  enough  to  wish  to  air  his  wits. 
He  leaves  the  ledger  and  its  irksome  toil. 
To  make  a  day-book  of  his  garden  soil; 
Warmed  by  the  rays  prosperity  has  lent. 
His  aspirations  here  have  found  a  vent; 
And  as  the  tulip  feels  Spring's  subtle  power. 
So  this  dry  bulb  has  burst  into  a  flower; 
Charmed  with  the  sweet  employment,  he  can  feel 
All  a  new  convert's  pardonable  zeal. 
Look  how  he  lords  it  over  honest  Pat — 
"Trim  me  this  pear  tree,  and  transplant  me  that; 
26 


194 


Put  this  peony  in  the  centre  bed; 
Dig  up  this  weedj  and  plant  a  rose  instead." 
Poor  Pat,  obsequious,  works  with  all  his  might, 
'Till  soon,  between  them.  Chaos  looms  in  sight. 

The  dear  man's  lessons  have  but  just  begun, 
Although  he  rates  himself  A,  No.  1, 
Full  of  good  feeling,  he  accounts  it  prime, 
In  such  fine  grounds  to  spend  his  leisure  time. 


Our  novice  knows,  beginner  though  he  be. 

The  learned  name  for  every  shrub  and  tree; 

That  is,  he  harbors  such  a  kind  of  whim. 

But  leans  on  labels  that  adorn  each  limb; 

Talks  learnedly  of  fall  and  winter  fruits. 

And  what  manures  are  'counted  best  for  roots; 

Can  tell  the  odds,  like  Affleck,  or  like  Prince, 

Between  an  apple  and  an  apple-quince; 

Knows  which  the  dwarf,  and  which  the  standard  trees. 

And  says  they  came  from  far  beyond  the  seas; 

Knows  they  are  genuine,  knows  each  seedling  "true," 

Because  he  had  them  from  a  man  he  knew. 

Which  means,  he  bought  them  (paid  the  money  down) 

From  a  French  gentleman,  who  passed  through  town ; 

And  who  assured  him,  with  sinister  glance, 

That  he  brought  every  tree,  himself,  from  France; 

That  though  impostors,  cheats,  were  all  about. 

Yet  one  was  sure  to  find  the  rascals  out! 


195 


Good  easy  man — he's  not  the  first  who's  made, 
111  roses  or  in  fruits,  this  kind  of  trade. 
And  not,  I  fear,  the  last  one  on  the  list 
Who'll  deem  French  morals  have  an  ugly  twist :- 
For  Frenchmen's  consciences  seem  supple  things, 
When  cheating  Yankees,  or  dethroning  kings. 

Still  our  green  gardener  carols  on  his  way, 
Well  pleased  with  this  new  hobby-horse  to  play; 
Borrows  pet  phrases  from  poor  Downing's  work. 
About  the  aphis  and  the  little  Turk, 
Winter-kill,  fire-blight,  apple-borer  grim. 
Root  grafting,  mulching,  pruning-in  a  limb: — 
These  artist  phrases  ripple  from  his  tongue 
As  if  he'd  been  indoctrinated  young. 

And  yet,  he's  learned  so  much  that  he  can  tell, 
By  the  young  buds,  if  things  are  doing  well; 
Knows  at  a  glance  a  sucker  from  a  shoot, 
And  guesses  shrewdly  at  the  sorts  of  fruit; 
He  knows  a  cherry  from  a  Bartlett  pear. 
Is  sure  next  year  his  peaches  all  will  bear; 
Has  learned  that  sunshine  does  a  deal  of  good 
In  opening  blossoms  and  in  ripening  wood ; 
Is  taught  to  let  liis  flower-pots  all  remain 
Quite  unprotected  from  the  summer  rain; 
Knows  a  day-lily  from  a  buttercup. 
Knows  both  will  thrive — if  planted  right  end  up! 


196 


And  yet,  for  all  he  is  so  wondrous  wise, 
Puts  faith  in  all  that  florists  advertise! 
Takes  the  whole  tribe  of  horticultural  prints, 
And  pins  his  faith  upon  their  monthly  hints; 
Takes  their  advice  to  use  a  hoe  or  spade, 
And  seems,  poor  tyro,  tenderly  afraid 
To  cut  a  dandelion,  until  he's  seen 
The  exact  direction  in  his  magazine. 

Ah,  there  it  is!     That  blessed  floral  guide 

Is,  like  his  trowel,  ever  at  his  side; 

He's  all  impatience  for  the  day  that  brings 

The  last  smooth  number,  full  of  pictured  things, 

Which  tells  him  when  to  plant,  and  when  to  mulch, 

And  is  to  him  a  Californian  gulch; — 

Grateful  to  him,  as  to  his  grass  the  dews. 

And  0!   so  full  of  horticultural  news! 


THE    REASON    WHY. 

TO    F.    S.    C. 

You  ■wonder  why  my  playful  muse 

Has  been  so  coy  of  late — 
As  if  impulsive  Pegasus 

Should  never  stop  to  "bait!" 
Besides — while  rhymes  are  blossoming 

One's  hopes  may  run  to  seed, 
And  so  I  pause  in  my  career, 

And  drop  the  lines — to  feed! 

Two  sides  there  are  to  human  life — 

The  dreamy  one  I've  tried, 
And  now  I  tread  with  sturdier  step 

The  bread-and-butter  side. 
Along  the  paths  of  Merchandise 

My  cautious  way  I  feel, 
And  deal  in  Iron  bars  for  gain. 

And  sometimes  even — steel! 


198 


Repress  your  rising  smile,  0  friend, 

Nor  spoil  my  bit  of  fun; 
A  metal  pen  may  be  allowed 

A  sympathetic  pun. 
And  since  I've  put  with  madam  Trade 

My  faculties  to  nurse. 
Thought  bourgeons,  and  o'erruns  the  bounds 

And  paths  of  sober  verse. 

Yet  "quips  and  cranks"  that  once  were  rife, 

Grow  scarcer  on  my  lips; 
The  light  that  hovered  o'er  my  pen 

Has  suffered  an  eclipse: 
I  wear  an  unobtrusive  hat, 

A  Linkinwater  coat, 
And  memories  of  departed  gloss 

Around  my  waistcoat  float. 

Folk  speak  of  me  as  a  sedate 

And  proper  kind  of  man. 
And  overlook  my  youthful  freaks — 

Or  try  to,  all  they  can: 
Indeed,  I  more  than  half  suspect 

It  was  some  other  boy. 
And  not  my  very  self,  with  whom 

The  muses  used  to  toy. 


199 

For  if  one's  known  to  jingle  rhymes^ 

Men  vote  him  but  a  flat, 
And  pass  him  with  a  distant  bow, 

And  cold  enough  at  that; 
But  the  melody  of  jingling  dimes 

Is  quite  another  sound, 
That  lifts  the  beavers  from  their  heads 

In  deference  profound. 

Gain  is  the  Ogre  of  the  age. 

That  changes  men  to  churls. 
And  swallows  up  aspiring  minds, 

As  oysters  swallow  pearls; 
They  leave  the  bar,  the  bench,  the  desk, 

The  academic  shade, 
And,  harnessed  in  alluring  bands. 

Become  the  slaves  of  trade. 

Behold — ^with  solemn  "charges"  filled — 

Those  folios  overhead; 
Charges  against  all  sorts  of  men. 

And  some  against  the  dead! 
These  are  the  records  of  my  life. 

For  weary  days  and  years — 
A  sort  of  sea  where  long  have  swayed 

My  shifting  hopes  and  fears. 


200 

Yet  is  my  nature  not  subdued 

To  that  in  which  it  works: 
Mine  is  a  sort  of  holy  war, 

Like  Nicholas  with  the  Turks! 
Like  him  I  quit  a  peaceful  realm 

And  seize  the  battle  brand, 
That  I  may  add  to  my  domain 

My  neighbor's  rood  of  land. 

Ehymes  are  not  rhino  here: — but  trade 

Adds  to  one's  private  weal^ 
And  bids  e'en  beef  and  puddings  smoke 

Upon  my  bit  of  deal! 
So  when  these  kindly  questions  come, 

As  come  they  do  by  dozens, 
I  answer  in  this  way  to  all 

Enquiring  friends  and  Cozzens. 

A  nom  de  plume^s  a  clever  vail 

For  writers  who  are  shy. 
Wherein  the  private  I  can  meet 

Nor  fear  the  public  eye. 
I  lift  the  mask  for  you  to  peep, 

But  charge  you  not  to  tell 
Who  'tis  that  dabbles  thus  in  rhyme 

And  signs  it  Honeywell. 


M191791         gsa 


THE  UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 


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